Stealing Joy

A year ago, on this very Saturday (though it was the 30th May), we had our last day of ‘normal’.  My parents had visited from Kent to see their new granddaughter.  Freya was 7 weeks old and we went on our first family day out since Freya was born, to a local farm.  The sun was shining; it was a glorious day that told us that summer was on the horizon.  The unexpected baby we had thought would ruin everything was proving to be our best ‘mishap’ to date. We were smugly happy with our perfect little life. We watched our older children play in the sunshine, whilst their baby sister slept in her pram, and it was like we had our own little slice of heaven right there.

That evening my husband and I went out for dinner with my parents, and my mother-in-law sat home with the children.  It was a pleasant evening, and when we returned home there was nothing to report, other than the fact that Freya hadn’t wanted all of her bedtime bottle.  It was unusual, but not exactly a serious situation; perhaps she was too tired, too full, or maybe there were some teeth on the way.

The next morning Freya would wake for her morning feed, around 6am.  Except she was so snuffly and bunged up that she just couldn’t take the bottle and gave up pretty quickly.  I was concerned, because she had gone for so long without a feed through the night (I remember celebrating our first proper night’s sleep), but I put it down to the fact that her nose was just too blocked up to let her feed.  At around 9am, I made another bottle and tried again, but just as before she couldn’t manage to take the feed, and fell asleep in my arms from the effort.  “She’ll feed when she’s hungry,” I told myself, and put her down in her bouncy chair.  A couple of hours passed, and I began to get quite fretful that she hadn’t fed since the previous day, so I decided to wake her and try again.   It was about 11am.  When I went to get her out of the chair, I noticed how hot she felt and so I took her temperature with a digital thermometer.  38.3F.  She had a fever.  I remained calm, I mean kids do get sick, and she has an older brother and sister who come into contact with all kinds of germs at school.  She had been snuffly for a couple of days; she had probably picked up a bit of a cold.  So I sent my husband to Mothercare to buy a medicine dispensing dummy (if you haven’t seen these, they are fantastic for getting medicine into a little baby).  Meanwhile I hunted out the Calpol. From 2 months.  That’s what it says on the front of the box.  Many would have given the medicine; I mean, she was only a week away from 2 months, what harm could it do? But for some reason, I felt like I couldn’t take that chance.  Unsure what to do, I called the out of hours GP service (it was a Sunday, remember).

The doctor called us back pretty quickly, and asked me to explain what symptoms Freya had.  She wasn’t feeding.  She was sleepy (but she was a newborn baby, and sleep was pretty much all she did).  She had a fever.  And come to think of it, her little tummy was moving up and down quite a bit – she was working hard at breathing.  The doctor said we should take her to A&E, as it was unusual for such a young baby to have a fever for no reason.  And that is what we did.

I’m guessing it was around 3pm in the afternoon by the time we were seen at the local hospital.   I don’t remember what was said by the nurse/doctor that checked Freya over.  I remember telling them that I had tested positive for Group B Strep during the pregnancy, and that although I was treated with IV antibiotics during labour, it was pretty tight timing wise.  I was on high alert for late onset GBS infection in Freya, and I knew that if she had contracted GBS during labour, there was a chance that she could develop meningitis.  They did too.  So they sent us up to the children’s observation unit with a view to keeping her in overnight for observation.

That part is all a bit of a blur too.  I remember sitting in the waiting area, Freya, burning up, lying across my knee.  She was laid on some paper towels whilst my husband and I attempted to catch a wee in a kidney dish. We went into a small room, and a doctor came to check her over.  I can’t remember what he said, or why he felt she should be admitted to the Children’s Ward.  I don’t remember when they put the IV antibiotics in.  I just remember that’s what happened.  We were admitted to a private room, and my husband went home to our older kids.  I sat in a chair in the corner of the room with Freya sleeping in my arms.  She was connected by the IV to a machine that dispensed the medicine, and every time I moved the machine would set off alarming, and the nurses would come in.  I think I stayed there until the medicine had all been delivered to Freya’s tiny, hot little body, and then I decided we both needed to get some proper sleep.  By this time, it was quite late.  It may even have been the early hours of the morning.  The nurses came in every hour to complete their observations, and then I put Freya in the cot so she might be cooler, and I might manage some sleep in the chair.


As I laid her down, I noticed that all familiar smell – she had a dirty nappy.  “The poor thing just needs to sleep, I’ll not disturb her” I told myself,  and I went back to my chair in the corner.  I’m not sure how long I sat there trying to get to sleep before my conscience got the better of me and I decided that I could not leave her in a dirty nappy. Disturb her or not, I needed to change her.  And it was as I lifted her vest that I noticed a pin-prick rash over her torso that I could just make out in the dim light.  I think it was about 5am, because it was starting to get light outside and I could hear the birds singing outside of our window.  Were my eyes playing tricks on me in the half light?  I was so tired.  I turned on the light and went to get a better look, but still in the fluorescent lights I couldn’t work out what I was seeing.  I walked over to the window and opened the curtains, and in that light I could see that this wasn’t an illusion.  Freya was covered in a rash.  I called the nurse who came to have a look, and we both spent so much time scrutinising that rash that I can’t remember to this day if it blanched under a glass or not.  The nurse called the on duty doctor, and by the time he arrived (which wasn’t long at all) the rash had spread down Freya’s legs and across her arms.

It was in that moment, watching the doctor silently complete his review of my baby, that I noticed the atmosphere change.  They called a consultant who joined the doctor in his silent inspection. It was very calm, but the air felt thick. I thought Freya was sleeping.  In fact she was unresponsive.  I remember hearing words like “shutting down”, and the doctors started to wheel Freya in her cot into another room.  It was the High Dependency Unit (HDU).  They delivered fluid boluses to Freya by stealth.  At 6am I called my husband “Gavin, I think you need to come quick.”


If you’ve followed Freya’s Story, you will know what happened next.  You’ll know that she became stable, but did not get any better for the next week, despite numerous antibiotics.  Her fever would not come down with antipyretics, and when her fever spiked (above 40 at times), so her heart rate would soar, and her oxygen levels would plummet.  She was very sick, yet it would take 13 days, lots of medication and countless tests before a diagnosis of atypical Kawasaki Disease would be reached.  Three hospitals would be responsible for her care during a six week incarceration (!) which began on the 31st May 2015.

I want to allow myself to believe all the motivational cliches about things happening for a reason, about how far we have come, about how lucky we are to have Freya here in our lives and how we should count our blessings.  But today that all feels like bullshit.  Today I find myself in mourning for normal.  I want to go back to that day at Cannon Hall Farm, where everything was blissful and beautiful and picture-book perfect, and somehow re-write history.  Today marks the anniversary of the last day we knew what normal was.  I wish that day were Groundhog Day and we could live it over and over and over so that the 31st May would never come.

I don’t want to wallow in the misery of the last year, believe me.  I want to be thankful for what we have, and cherish every moment.  I want to believe that this happened to us for a reason, that we will all be better people for it, that I will look back on all this one day and laugh at how wrapped up I was.  I will allow that to come, I’m sure (and the counsellor will give me a good kick up the arse if I don’t!), but for now I am allowing myself some wallow-time.  I have every right to feel sorrow, and to mourn the loss of the life I planned to have.  I have every right to feel angry that Kawasaki Disease came into my daughter’s life and robbed her of her health so soon after she arrived in this world.  I have every right to feel angry that the world keeps turning, and that people are moving on even though I seem to be stuck in this perpetual Kawahell.  Today, I hate Kawasaki Disease.  It broke my baby’s heart, and it broke mine too.

Most of all, I hate that this disease took away some of the joy that I ought to feel from moments like this…



The Gift that Keeps on Giving…

“Mum, remember when you thought you might not get to see me grow up? Bet you feel silly now?!”

They say that you shouldn’t wish for your children to grow up, that you should will them to slow down because in the blink of an eye your once tiny baby is all big and independent and doing things you never thought possible.  Well, in a way Peanut that is true.  But as bad as it may sound, there’s a huge part of me wanting you to hurry up! Hurry up and talk, hurry up and walk, hurry up and grow big and strong so that I can be sure to have had the chance to see it all in case it is taken away from me.  I’m scared.  Scared that I won’t get the chance to know you like I should. Scared that Kawasaki Disease has not finished with you just yet.

Today we took you to the hospital for your cardiology follow-up appointment.  You were last seen three months ago, where the cardiologist remarked that the speed of which your coronary arteries have been remodelling is concerning, and they would like to carry out an angiogram to take a closer look.  I knew she was referring to possible stenosis; that the reduction in the internal diameter of your coronaries might not be healthy, and is more likely to be the result of a build up of scar tissue or layered blood clots that have effected  the change.  But I have read that stenosis can take decades to cause any ill effects, and as such I felt it would be prudent to give you more time.  More time to grow, so that less invasive procedures might tell them what they want to know.  Apparently an MRI or CT scan isn’t as effective in giving a true picture in such a young child, and an angiogram is the only option that will show them what is really going on in that little heart of yours.  I asked the opinion of 3 experts, all of whom concurred with my view that there would be no harm in waiting, perhaps even up to a year, and carrying out a less invasive procedure.  I put that question to your cardiologist, but she seemed pretty keen on pushing forward and continued to voice a preference for carrying out an angiogram a year post-diagnosis; June.

I decided to wait until your next appointment to understand more fully why the consultant was so eager to press on.  That appointment was today.

We arrived at the hospital just in time for your appointment, and were sent straight down the corridor for an ECG.  It took the cardiographer 20 minutes to get a reading from your heart because you were wriggling so much! We had to bribe you with ‘sweets’ (little fruit things that we call sweets because they’re as close as we will let you get to confectionary at your young age!) to get you to sit still for long enough! You’re not as easy a patient as you were last year, this time pulling off the electrodes and yanking on the wires, but he got there in the end!  Nothing was said about the result, and I am guessing that means that, as usual, the ECG showed normal heart function.  Next it was time to weigh and measure you (you weigh 8.46kg and are 74cm in height), and then you were called into the examination room.


It wasn’t your cardiologist that called us in; it was a registrar.  She introduced herself and asked if we had any concerns since the last appointment.  We had none.  She then asked us to take you over to the bed so she could perform an echocardiogram, and I asked if we were going to see your doctor today.  She said that we would, and that she was just with another patient.  I guess they were helping each other out so they might all finish the day at a reasonable time.

Surprisingly, you laid quite still for the echo.  Okay, so you had to be given a probe of your own because you do like to take matters into your own hands, but she got there (with the help of a bottle of milk!).  She didn’t say much, but as usual I clocked the numbers appearing on the bottom of the screen and was able to catch that your LCA (left coronary artery – the one that has caused the biggest worry on this journey so far) measured 2.8mm.  Was that bigger than the last time? I seem to remember it being closer to 2mm, but what’s a fraction of a mm between friends, eh?  Your consultant then entered the room, and continued the appointment with the registrar present.

She looked at the screen, and remarked that your RCA (right coronary artery) looked almost normal.  She seemed happy with function and blood flow.  It seemed that she was about to suggest a routine follow-up appointment and gave the impression that it would be a longer period next time, but the registrar mentioned that an angiogram was mentioned at the last appointment. Ah yes, remarked the consultant. I reminded her that she was considering the procedure because she was concerned about the extensive remodelling that your arteries have undergone in such a short space of time.  Ah yes, she remarked, and commented that at worst, the diameter had measured 8mm.  I corrected her.  Unless I missed something along the way, the largest measurement was 5.2mm.  Whilst small in comparison to some children affected by this disease, they were more than 5 times normal size and in a baby as young as you were was considered significant and cause for serious concern.

I told the consultant that I had a few questions, and pulled out my notebook (I know! I do like to make notes!)  The first question I asked was why she felt it so important to carry out a risky, invasive procedure now? What benefit could it have? What was her thought process, and what were her concerns?  I had thought that she might concede with a “perhaps we ought to wait” kind of statement.  But instead she told me that she thinks it is highly likely that the remodelling has come about as a result of stenosis – anything other than that would be nothing short of a miracle.  I asked if there wasn’t a chance that the remodelling has come about as a result of the aggressive treatment you received to stop the disease in it’s tracks (you received steroids and a dose of Infliximab when two doses of IVIG proved ineffective).  She agreed that was possible, but didn’t seem convinced.  An MRI/CT would be effective in providing a better picture of aneurysms, but in a child as young as you they would not be as effective in showing stenosis.  I asked what would be gained by doing it now? Stenosis can take decades to develop before the arteries might close enough to prevent blood flow.  And if the angiogram did show evidence of stenosis, how would that change the treatment plan? And then she used words that I had not considered would be used in your lifetime. Stent.  Bypass surgery.

I guess I knew what her concerns were before I asked them.  I mean, she isn’t likely to put you through an unnecessary procedure, is she! I told her that I would prefer to wait, but that if she felt that waiting would put you at risk I would trust her judgement.  She said that she would really like to get a look, and it dawned on me that you are quite the case of interest.  One of the youngest cases to be handled, aggressively treated, showing almost too-good-to-be-true recovery.  Yes, of course they would like to get a look.  I said I appreciated the medical interest in understanding what has been happening with your heart, but that you are not a specimen, you are my baby.  She reluctantly agreed to see you again in three months, and noted that whilst there was a great deal to be learned from you, that she would not consider the procedure for medical knowledge alone.   She agreed to discuss your case with at the next MDT meeting (multi-disciplinary team) with a view to negotiating with me further then.  She has already discussed your case with the surgeon, and they too believe it would be prudent to do an angiogram sooner rather than later.  That said, she still agreed to give us another 3 months (which will end up being more if the waiting list is as long as I expect), on the strict proviso that if we see any evidence of angina we are to contact her.

Let me take a moment to tell you about the symptoms of angina;

  • Chest pain or discomfort (not sure how you will tell me about that!)
  • Pain in your arms, neck, shoulder or back accompanying chest pain (ditto!)
  • Nausea (won’t generally know that one until you actually throw up!)
  • Fatigue (hmm, should I be concerned that you sleep through the night?)
  • Shortness of breath (you don’t get above a fast crawl yet, and I’ve not seen you panting!)
  • Sweating (nope)
  • Dizziness (again, how would I know?)

So apparently the only way I might be able to tell if you are suffering with angina would be if you are playing one minute, and then go quiet, and maybe glaze over for a moment.  This could be interesting :/

It would seem we are not yet out of the woods, my darling.  Just when I thought that there could be a future where KD becomes nothing but a distant memory, here it is threatening to place a dark cloud over the years to come.  The only thing I can hold onto is hope, but that is so hard when I feel like I am fighting a losing battle with this disease.  I have no control over it, none.  It came, it messed you up real bad, and it just won’t leave us alone.  I know there is a chance that they could do the angiogram and discover that you are indeed the miracle I had started to believe in.  But I also fear the worst.  And I know that there are far more complicated procedures happening to very sick babies, with huge success, every single minute of every single day.  But they are not happening to my baby.  And I so want to bury my head in the sand like an ostrich and pretend that this isn’t our life, that this isn’t your life.  Today for the very first time I saw ahead of me just how complicated your life might be, and it has made me incredibly sad.

And because with this disease the hits just seem to keep on coming, I returned home to a voicemail from your GP.  We were given the green light to crack on with catching you up on the routine immunisations, and also later given the go ahead to give you the MMR vaccine.  It was unclear, however, what timing/order the Immunologist felt these should be given in.  You’ve had the 8 and 12 week immunisations now, and I was hoping that we might be able to intersperse them with the MMR, Chicken Pox and Flu vaccines rather than wait any longer than necessary.  This family needs a holiday far, far away from here.

Sadly, the advice was more disappointing than I had anticipated.  The instruction has been to wait until after the final routine vaccinations have been given (around June).  Because you are a unique case, they are not comfortable in progressing to the remaining vaccines until 3 months after that.  So at best, you will get the MMR in September.  No mention has been made of the Chicken Pox or Flu vaccines, but I can only guess they will want to wait longer for those too.  I just wanted us to do some normal stuff, Freya.  Mix with other kids, in places where normal kids go.  Jump on a plane to somewhere warm where we can forget all about this for a time.  I am sick of being restricted by my fear, but I cannot knowingly expose you to illnesses that have the ability to take more from you than KD already has.  I’m talking about Reye’s.  And yes, I know it’s rare, and it hasn’t yet been linked to low doses of aspirin, but it’s a risk I cannot bring myself to take.  What were the odds of you getting KD at 7 weeks old?? Exactly.

I’m sorry, my tone is getting quite unpleasant isn’t it? And I am sorry for burdening you with this worry.  Almost a year ago I asked a God I don’t believe in to prove the doctors wrong.  If he’s listening, this is his chance to show me what he can do.  I can only hope that if you are reading this, it means that you have already proven yourself to be the miracle that we all hope you will be.  I don’t want to live in a world without you in it.


A Family Affair

Yesterday it was the annual UK National Kawasaki Syndrome Support Group (KSSG) Family Day; an event put on by the founders of the Group to provide the opportunity for families to come together to share the one thing that we all have in common; our lives have been touched (more like whacked) by Kawasaki Disease.

Freya and I, and my eldest daughter Eliza, travelled down to Coventry to attend the event; our first since Freya’s diagnosis.  When the last event took place, Freya was just 22 days old and we were blissfully unaware of what would unfold a few weeks after that.  At that point, we hadn’t even heard of the disease with the bizarre name that, whilst considered rare, is the leading cause of acquired heart disease in children in the developed world.  And why would I have needed to know about it anyway? That kind of stuff didn’t happen to us; it happened to other people.  It happened to the people that were at that family day whilst I sat at home gazing into the eyes of my beautiful, healthy, newborn baby.  Wasn’t I lucky…

Who knew that one day, a little over a year after Freya was born, I would be attending an event with families affected by this little known disease.

Freya was diagnosed on Friday 12th June 2015.  She was 63 days old.  On a Friday 9 weeks prior, Freya was born in our local hospital.  At 7 weeks, she developed symptoms of meningitis and went into septic shock.  13 days later an echocardiogram would secure a diagnosis of atypical Kawasaki Disease, after 2-weeks of drugs, tests and invasive procedures failed to provide any answers.  Once we got the diagnosis for Freya – after the initial “Oh thank God it’s that! Never heard of that so it can’t be that bad!” – we took to the internet, and the mystery of Kawasaki Disease began to unravel, along with an understanding of the severity of the disease and it’s impact on the affected child.  Even when they told us that Freya’s coronary arteries (the ones that supply blood to and from the heart) were severely dilated, I still didn’t appreciate the long term effect that this would have.  I thought it was a side effect of the disease, that they would give her medicine, and that it would all go back to normal in a few days once the meds had their chance to work…

Luckily, this is true for the majority of children.  Approximately 75% of children diagnosed with Kawasaki Disease will manage to escape any coronary involvement (although evidence is suggesting that these children do not escape all potential lasting effects from this disease).  With fast treatment, the risk of prolonged damage to the heart is reduced from 25% of cases to around 6%.  Freya received the treatment, but the damage to her heart continued to worsen.  A second dose of the treatment didn’t stop the inflammation caused by the disease either, and so she was prescribed an infusion of a product called Infliximab made from the antibodies of mice that seemed to do the trick.  Combined with the other treatment – the previously administered IVIG doses, high dose aspirin and intravenous steroids – the disease appeared to be stopped in its tracks, and it was time to focus on maintaining her condition.  The rest has been documented in my blog posts along the way, and to cut a long story short, suffice it to say that Freya’s coronaries have started to remodel to within normal range.  She continues to take aspirin daily for it’s anti-platelet effects, and she will undergo a procedure later (possibly June this year) to ascertain the cause of the remodelling (healthy or otherwise).  But back to the main point of this blog post today…

The Family Day

I don’t know how many families attended, but the room was buzzing with the chatter of the families who did attend from the moment I arrived.  I was greeted by one of the founders of the Group, Sue, who came and gave me a big hug and couldn’t wait to get a cuddle from Freya – they had met some months before and I joked that Sue was like a ‘baby whisperer’ as I hadn’t seen Freya quite so happy to have a cuddle before!

I took my eldest daughter too (my middle child, Finlay, decided that his friend’s laser birthday party was too good an opportunity to miss so he stated at home!)  Looking around the room, I saw faces that were familiar from the profile pictures that you see popping up in the Support Group Facebook pages from time to time.  I’m not going to name individuals because I don’t have their permission to do so, but it was lovely to chat to people who I’ve communicated with on different KSSG Facebook threads, as well as meet new people too.  Some of the families had been to previous family days, for others it was there first time like me.  Talking to the parents around the room, you got a real sense that this is something that sticks with you for a long time.  Diagnosis dates ranged from months ago to years ago.  I spoke to one gentleman who had to face this disease with his child 15 years ago.  That’s before the internet had become as useful and saturated with information as it is now (and that’s saying something, because even now there is a dearth of useful information about the disease).  We all shared our stories, all different but with some similarities.  It felt good not to know that we are not alone.

As well as the informal chatter amongst parents, and the new friendships being formed amongst the children, some useful information was shared in relation to genetic research, and some developments about future projects to change the face of Kawasaki Disease in our country (also not for me to share here, but I am sure things will begin to unfold soon).  The day seemed to whizz by in a flash.

The people who have been supported by the KSSG will have joined the Group at varying stages of their journey with Kawasaki Disease.  Some have been members for years, others recently joined, like me.  And everyone’s circumstances are different; some will have needed a lot of support from the Group, for others just the knowledge that there is someone there if they need them is enough.  Those that have been dealing with KD for a number of years will have seen the group evolve over the last 20 years, will perhaps have seen new developments in the world of KD.  For people like me, joining less than a year ago, much of those developments will already have happened before our time, and so we only know what we know now.  And I’m sure there is so much more available to us now than there has been in previous years, but I think one thing that all of us in the Kawasaki family agree on is that there is still so much more that needs to be done to put Kawasaki Disease on the radar of medical professionals and ordinary people like you and me.  There is most definitely an appetite for change, and there are plenty of people who are willing to support that change too.  I imagine most, if not all of us, left yesterday feeling pretty optimistic about the future of the disease.

One thing that was noted was that looking around the room, you could not tell who was a sufferer and who wasn’t.  Eliza (my eldest) spent a lot of the day chatting with a couple of lads around her age.  I believe both boys have suffered with Kawasaki Disease and deal with the after effects of that illness today, but Eliza didn’t know it.  They didn’t talk about it; they talked about ‘normal’ stuff – music and school and what they like to get up to in their spare time.  Children with multiple giant coronary aneurysms ran around that Rugby Club alongside children that had never had a day’s illness in their lives.  These kids are remarkable.  They face regular medical check-ups, uncertainty about what lies ahead, some have had to stop doing things that they loved to do before all of this happened to them.  And yet you wouldn’t know it to look at them; they’re made of strong stuff.

And Freya? Well, she crawled around happy as a pig in muck all day! And she was clearly inspired by the other children, as today she decided that she would take her first unaided steps and prove that she too was made of the same strong stuff as those other kids who share something in common with our little girl.  Not Kawasaki Disease.  That’s a given.  They share the fact that they are extraordinary, in more ways than one.

Thank you to the KSSG for putting on the event, and to those that helped them to pull it all together.  I didn’t take many pictures during the day as I was too busy talking (there’s a shock, lol!), so here is one of my daughter Eliza with the face paint that she did not want to take off!


Memories of another you

The other day I awoke to a Facebook memory; a picture of you from the same day a year ago.  You were 4 days old, we were home, and you were in your bouncy chair staring at me.  At first I smiled at the memory; that little face full of wonder at a new world that you could barely see through eyes so new.  But then, like a lengthening shadow, sadness crept in.


Those days we had with you were so few before Kawasaki Disease pushed its way into our lives and stole you from us.  The you we knew. The you I gave birth to.  The you that wasn’t broken.  I don’t think I will ever learn how to come to terms with what this disease did to you. You were born healthy, and perfect and pure.  For 7 weeks we got to know each other at home, barely going out, because I wanted to be sure I gave myself the chance to drink you in.  We cuddled on the sofa for hours, and I fed you from my breast because I wanted you to have the best start in this world.  I know now how important those moments were, and I am thankful that I cherished you and didn’t feel any pressure to share you with the outside.  It’s like I knew.

But I didn’t know.  I had no idea that things would change for you, for us, overnight.  You were so perfect, so well.  We had no concerns at all about your development or your health.  You were nothing short of perfection, and I was smitten from the moment I looked down at you from my position on that labour bed.

I guess these memories are going to act as triggers for a while.  Seven weeks of memories of the you we had will be replaced by memories of the worst days of my life.  At least I came away from Facebook for a while just before you became sick; that I can be thankful for.  But then, I don’t need Facebook memories to remind me of those days; those days are forever etched on my mind.  I can’t accept the cruelty of it all.  To have struggled so much with the concept of finding myself pregnant again but come through it having battled some old demons and actually looking forward to this new adventure, only to see it come crashing down around my feet was cruel indeed.  We didn’t deserve this.  You didn’t.

I try to tell myself that I should be thankful you are here with us.  Things could have been very different.  In that first week in the hospital I was convinced I would be going home without you, you were so sick.  And when they told us that your little heart was damaged I prepared myself for the worst.  The psychologist told me that what I was experiencing was anticipatory grief; I had been presented with the possibility that you might be taken from us, and my mind had already begun to process that notion.  I could see a certain photograph of you on an easel at the top of a church aisle; that photograph haunts me still, and was the catalyst for my thoughts and feelings on those eyes of yours.  I told myself that if I accepted that this disease would kill you, that I might not take you for granted for the time that you are here.  I guess, even though it’s a little morbid, it’s not a bad way of thinking about it.  I mean, if the worst is that you have a life full of wonder until you are 90 then we won’t have lost anything will we? It’s a good rule to live by, and there are hundreds of cliches I could quote about living life to the full that would fit right in here. We were lucky that your heart began to show signs of improvement, and that we haven’t had to live with that feeling forever – others do.

Using the word ‘lucky’ to describe you makes me flinch, and the bully in my head says “Watch it! You’re not out of the woods yet! Don’t be counting those chickens already…!”

I hate Kawasaki Disease.  I hate it for stealing my memories and turning them into reasons to be sad and full of regret.  I hate that I can’t look at a picture of my tiny baby without feeling sorrow for the short time we had before our lives became filled with fear and drama.  I hate  that I can’t hold another baby without feeling like I’ve missed out on so much.  I held you for seven weeks, and it would be weeks before I could properly hold you again.  I could have held you, but your temperature soared relentlessly for a fortnight and I was scared that I would make you even hotter than you already were.  And I hated the tubes and the wires and the needles; the slightest movement would set the monitors off screaming and the nurses running.  I hated the look in your eyes; you were too young to be afraid.  I wish I knew how you felt when you were lying there in that cot with a vacant stare.

I hate it for making me look at the world through different eyes.  I am wary of the world now.  I know first hand that it has the power to take away everything that you love and I  approach every day with caution, even when I try to find joy.  Sometimes I think I have seen something out of the corner of my eye.  It’s like I see Death waiting in the shadows.  Kawasaki Disease sucks.

75% of children who have this disease will walk away without any heart complications.  They are the lucky ones, but that doesn’t take away the terror of the experience for the child or the parent.  But why did you have to be one of the 25%? Why couldn’t it have just left your tiny heart alone? Could it have been prevented? The doctors ruled out their suspicion that it could be KD on day 9, and yet it was lurking and continued to do it’s damage whilst their backs were turned.  4 days later it became clear that it had been Kawasaki Disease all along. I wonder how the doctors felt when the echo showed them that awful truth…

None of that matters now, I guess.  It’s done isn’t it, and there is nothing we can do to change it.  I have to learn to accept that we live in a world where uncertainty is the only thing that is certain.  Death and taxes.  This world is full of beauty, but it is also home to a lot of hurt.  And as if there wasn’t already enough sadness to deal with in this life, there are people who see fit to cause others pain.  Why do people do that? It is beyond me.

Anyway, enough of this morose talk.  What ever will you think of your mother when you read this stuff?!  It’s hard though Peanut, it really is.  The emotions I have to deal with every time I look at you are a bit too big for me sometimes; sadness, regret, guilt, anger, fear…love.  I just need to get myself back on track with our plans to turn this whole sorry mess into something positive.  You’ve raised a lot of money – £7,000 in just one month of fundraising for one event!  And you’ve even appeared on ITV News (  We will do what we can together to raise awareness of the disease, so that the next time a child presents the symptoms, their parent might just ask the question, “You don’t think it could be Kawasaki Disease do you?”


What a Difference a Day Makes

We did it Freya! We did what we set out to do, and marked your very first milestone with an event to remember.  I hope when you read this, you will forgive me and Daddy for sacrificing your 1st Birthday for Kawasaki Disease Research, and we hope that you will look  back and feel proud of the legacy that we created in your name.  Your first birthday was important to us in more ways than you could ever imagine.  It has been exactly 10 months today since you received a diagnosis of Kawasaki Disease when an echocardiogram (heart scan) showed us the damage to your heart.  Back then I was so afraid for you that I couldn’t see a future that spanned days, let alone months.  Celebrating your 1st birthday never occurred to me – I was focussing on what was happening right there and then and it didn’t look good sweetheart, it really didn’t.  I don’t think I gave up on you, but I did start to allow myself to believe that we might lose you to this disease because of the damage that it did to your heart.

On the 25th January 2016 I sent out an invite to an event on Facebook; Freya’s 1st Birthday Fundraiser for Kawasaki Disease Research.  It would be a birthday party with a twist. First of all, you have very few friends (to protect you from some nasty childhood bugs until you have been immunised against them, we’ve lived in quite a closed circle for the last year).  Instead I had to find you some friends, and so I invited all of my Facebook friends that have children, and a few without.  I intended to have a number of stalls at the party that would provide an opportunity for us to raise some funds for research into the disease, but also needed to make sure that it was a great party for you, and that everyone would enjoy it.  And we wanted to do a raffle too, so I set about contacting local (and not so local) businesses to ask if they would donate a raffle prize to support us.  Some didn’t reply, a few were unable to help, but lots of people were happy to provide some brilliant things for your raffle, and we ended up with a list of 82 amazing prizes with an iPad Air donated by Daddy’s work as the top prize!  I was overwhelmed by the support for the cause, and interest in the raffle was soon peaked.


We hit a small stumbling block when a friend informed us that we had to obtain a license in order to sell raffle tickets before the event, but I leapt into action right away and made the application to the Local Authority who (with a little help from the Mayoress’ office) turned the application around quickly and our license was granted.  It delayed the process by about 4 weeks, but the license was received on my birthday, 26th February.  We then had to have special tickets printed, and we were very lucky that Hayselden Volkswagen, Doncaster, stepped up to offer the printing as their donation to our cause.  We received the raffle tickets in the middle of March – we had one month to sell as many as we could, and we needed to sell enough to do justice to the value of the prizes we had received.


We needed to make sure the party was something for everyone to enjoy, so we engaged a local children’s entertainment business, Bumblezzz, to do balloon modelling, face painting, a magic show and party dances.  The husband and wife entertainers sadly lost a daughter to cancer, so it felt like they were the right people to use for your party; people who could empathise with our situation.

Your nanny offered to run a jewellery stall where children could make a bracelet to take home as a keepsake from your special day.  She also made some things to represent Kawasaki Disease awareness, including little crystal ‘Kawa-angels’ and sun-catchers in orange and red.  Her stall was a huge success and she raised over £120 on the day.


People from the local area, and other people that we know, donated lots of things for a tombola.  We even had bottles of champagne, so it was a very posh one! We had so many things that we did one for the children, and one for the adults.  Both tables were absolutely full of things, and almost everything had gone in the first hour of the party!  Your cousins, Tegan and Amber and their friends took charge of the adult tombola, and our friend Louise and her daughter Izzy manned the kiddies one.  In total the tombola tables made over £250, which is amazing!

Some of our friends made cakes to sell at your party.  Jo and Lisa (and their family) made some beautiful cakes and scones.  The stars of the show were Linda and Tracey who made absolutely loads of beautiful things, and made the cake stall look fit for a princess!  They made over £165 selling the things that they donated, and I even got to try a scone with some jam and cream.

The local nursery donated a bear, but he didn’t have a name so the children needed to try and guess it.  He was eventually named “Harley” and raised nearly £40 towards our total.  Our friends Alison and Jo manned the stalls with a little help (well a lot actually) from Jake, who added another £20 to the total with the Guess the Sweets in the Jar competition.  Bonbon Delights donated their Sweet Cart laden with sweets which they sold, making over £20 to add to the total raised at your event too.

Your Granny, Auntie Catherine and Vicky did a sterling job in the kitchen making tea and coffee and soft drinks for everyone, and your Auntie Hayley sold over £230 worth of raffle tickets.  We even had an impromptu visit from an Air Ambulance medic who taught the children to perform CPR using his dummies; that was fantastic!

I’m not sure how many people came to your party, but it was very busy!  Nearly 100 people accepted the invite on Facebook, and they brought family and friends and their children too.  Your Granny and Auntie Nicola bought you a car for your present, which you loved zooming around in, and you even got to meet Queen Elsa (Millie’s Magical Parties) who came along for free to support the event.


We had an awareness table where I shared a photo story of your journey from the day you were born up to now.  We asked people not to buy you birthday cards, but a lot did anyway and we have a dining room table covered with them!  But we did ask people to write a wish or a message on a paper heart which I will be putting into a scrap book for you with memories of the event.

Mummy’s work (Capita) held a bake sale at work where they raised over £185, and the local wine bar, Otto, sold cupcakes on Rare Disease Day, making a massive £120 in one day! They presented us with the cheque on Monday, and you even got a birthday cake from them to mark the occasion.


I am overwhelmed by the love and support that we felt on Sunday.  It was one of the most special days I have had with you since you were born, and certainly since everything changed when KD entered our lives.  I cannot think of a better way to turn something so terrible into something good, and the awareness and money we raised at the event will hopefully go a long way to helping the researchers to uncover the mystery of this disease, even if we can’t change anything for you.

All of these things, along with the direct donations made by people who have been touched by your story (not including the huge £75,000 donation received by COSMIC in your honour), add up to a total of over £6500! Because everything we raised is being matched by the Macklin Foundation in America, that is worth £13,000 to the research effort.  And if we can be cheeky enough to add the donation from ‘a cool Italian Dad who lives in Hong Kong, you alone have inspired a total donation worth over £163,000 to research.  I am bursting with pride.  You have achieved more in your little life than most achieve in a lifetime, and I will be eternally in awe of your ability to touch hearts and to give Kawasaki Disease a voice that has been silent long enough.

Together we can move mountains.



75,000 Reasons to be Thankful…

So Peanut, where do I start?  I guess a good place to start would be to thank you.  Thank you for coming into the world, despite all my efforts to ruin that.  I wasn’t sure that you were welcome in my life when I found out that you were coming along.  Some people might say I ought not to share that, but do you know what? I’m not afraid of my honesty, because I know that you will never, ever feel that you were not wanted.  So I wasn’t sure I was going to love you when you were growing inside me, not in those early months.  But towards the end, our bond began to grow, and when you arrived into the world, a tiny, purple, screeching thing, I knew that the past didn’t matter.  What mattered was that you were here, you were alive (yes, I was afraid of that), and that there was no question in my mind that I loved you at that moment, and that I would continue to love you for the rest of my life.

You were so precious, and I held you so tight I was afraid I would crush you.  But I had been on such a journey to get to that point with you that I had to feel you in my arms, really feel you.  Years ago, when your older sister and brother were born, babies seemed to be whisked off, the moment they arrived, for the all important weighing and measuring.  It seems the health service have learned a thing or two about bonding since then.  I remember saying over and over to the midwife, to your Auntie and your Daddy that were all there with me to share the moment when you burst into that delivery room, “Am I hurting her?”, “Am I holding her too tight?”  And they told me to relax, and I held you for the longest time, drinking every bit of you in.  I felt like I had been truly blessed.  Not in the glib clichéd sense, but actually blessed with a gift.  You were a sign.  A sign that proved to me that I was indeed a lucky person, and all the insecurities, fears and negativity I had held onto for so long were allowed to be set free.

In the early weeks, I took heed of all the advice I had been given and ignored with your siblings.  We didn’t go out of the house for weeks.  We spent our days cuddled up in the cosy corner of the sofa and got to know each other.  When you slept, so did I; the housework could wait.  And I didn’t feel any need to rush out to meet people or go places, because I wasn’t ready to share you with the world yet.  You were all mine, and I all yours.  There would be time for all that fun stuff later.  Had I known what would happen 7 weeks later, might I have done things differently?  No, I don’t think I would have.  In fact I am glad I made the choices that I did, because at least I got to have the perfect you all to myself for 7 blissful weeks.  Before…well you already know what happened next.

I am not going to dwell on the following weeks, on your illness, on your diagnosis or the effects that Kawasaki Disease have had on you.  By the time you read this we will have covered all that.  No, this letter is about thanks, so lets get back to the point shall we.

You truly are a remarkable little girl, Freya.  You have endured so much in your little life, and yet you have managed with a grace that shouldn’t even be possible at your age.  You have more courage than I have seen in people more than 20 years your senior.  Your heart, tiny by comparison, has the ability to love with more fervour than any adult I have met in my 41 years on this Earth.  You touched my heart in some magical way the moment you were born, and you have continued to touch the hearts of everyone who has encountered you since.  You have something special within your soul, that shines out like a beacon through those eyes.  Eyes that have both the power to haunt and to heal me.

You have taken everything your short life has thrown at you in your stride, before you are even able to walk a step! Even when you were critically ill and your eyes pleaded with me to help you, your little mouth worked so hard to form a smile.  And later, as you started to get stronger, you smiled for every nurse and every doctor that crossed your path.  And there were a lot!  You even managed to bowl the phlebotomists over when they came to take your blood.  You would cry for a moment, but once they had taken their fill, that smile would spread across your face like a sunbeam and I would see that you had made someone’s day.  Again.

Thank you for inspiring me to write.  Well, it was your Auntie who gave me the journal and the pen, but you were my muse.  I remember opening that book, and wondering where to start, and then I looked over at you in your cot and I knew you were scared and I had to tell you what was going on.  And so the letters began.  I didn’t give it too much thought after that; the letters just came, at the end of every day when you were sleeping.  I would write in the moonlit room, laid on the parent bed by the side of your cot.  Sometimes I would think about how you would learn all about those days, because I knew you wouldn’t remember them.  Often, it was a chance for me to keep a note of the facts as your story unfolded.  Sometimes, on particularly bad days sweetheart, I would wonder if I would ever get to share your story with you, and I wondered if I knew deep down that I could really be writing for myself.  But let’s not dwell on that, eh?

I knew your story was one that I needed to share.  It came from an intense need to make sure that you had not suffered in vain.  To walk away and do nothing would have made me feel like it was unimportant, and it felt too important for me to do that.  In every moment that I wrote through tears in my journal, I felt that there was another parent like me in a hospital room somewhere with their child; sad, scared and alone.  I felt alone.  I scoured the internet,  I contacted Doctors near and far, and I joined social media support groups searching for answers.  The thing is, you can find the basic answers for the typical cases, but your case was an atypical one in many ways.  Any answers I did get were like gold, and whilst I knew that the information I gathered in relation to your case would not be appropriate to generalise, I knew that I couldn’t hold onto them.

And so Freya’s Story began.  I resurrected this blog, and created your tag.  And then I created a Facebook page that would help me to broaden the audience for awareness.  I had a lot of catching up to do – I had written 40,000 words in that journal if I remember correctly! So I began the task of transferring those journal entries onto my blog, whilst updating on your current situation.  There are many other social media pages who are dedicated to raising awareness and keeping people like me informed on latest news and developments in the world of Kawasaki’s.  The various support group pages were great, but sometimes the updates about children who were continuing to experience health issues years after diagnosis would push me into a very dark place.  Sadly, that is the reality of the disease, I know that.  But I wanted to use your page to show people that there is #lifeafterkawasakis.  Of course the disease continues to blight our life.  You have continued complications with your heart that are still unknown.  In a couple of month’s time you will go into hospital for an invasive procedure to try and get some idea of what is going on.  So far, you look like a miracle kid.  But we need to look deeper to be sure.

Freya’s Story is about more than the disease though.  It is about a special little girl, who has the ability to inspire a mum to write; I always knew I had words in me, I was just lacking the inspiration.  It’s about a pair of eyes that have the power to lock with the reader’s through a screen and implore them to read your story.  It’s about flying in the face of adversity, seizing opportunities, loving life and having hope.  It’s a celebration of a little girl who will not allow some nasty bastard illness (sorry for the language but I get a bit angry at KD sometimes) to stand in her way.  You are not the Kawasaki Kid.  You are my marvel, and you surprise me every day.  I hope as you read this, all grown and proud of whatever you have achieved in your life, that you still cannot see the scars that KD left you with.  It is an invisible illness that shows itself for a while, then skulks back off into the shadows where it belongs.

I knew I had done the right thing as soon as the messages started coming in.  Ok, so Freya’s Story hasn’t exactly gone viral – let’s face it, Kawasaki Disease doesn’t have the same amount of clout as Meningitis, say, but it needs putting on the map, and you and I will help to put it there.  And anyway, if even just one parent feels less alone, or one child receives a swift diagnosis or the right treatment after reading our blog, then we achieved what we set out to.  We’ve had parents sending messages of hope, parents asking questions about medication, treatment, immunisations, all kinds of stuff.  I’ve had to be careful with my responses; I don’t have a medical degree (although I do sometimes feel like I have one in KD), so I have mainly signposted parents to useful social media pages, internet links, research papers, support groups and the like.  I have given words of comfort when they’ve been asked of me.  I’ve kept people up to date with how you are doing when they’ve contacted me to ask how you are.   We’ve been credited with helping parents get the treatment that they needed for their child, and helping some people through some lonely times.  I am sure there have been some doctors across the country muttering “Who is this Freya’s mother?!” But I have never claimed to know it all. I only know about you really.  But at least I have been able to provide information that has helped to inform discussion and provide a line of questioning that might previously have been more difficult for a parent to navigate.  Thank you for inspiring me to do that.

You might not thank me for it, but I am sacrificing your 1st Birthday to raise funds for Kawasaki Disease research.  Ever since I made contact with the Professor heading the research after we sent off our swabs for genetic testing, I knew I had to do something.  I had asked the Professor to show me a tangible offering for parents like me to donate to.  Something that would show us how we could contribute to the amazing opportunity that had been granted to Professor Jane Burns in the States.  He cemented the offering in a 2-page document with a link to the COSMIC Kawasaki Disease Research Fund campaign on the Virgin Money Giving site, and I shared it with the Kawasaki community back in November last year.  Once I had a willing recipient, I could concentrate on bringing in some funds – no matter how small our contribution might be, the Professor had assured me it would be worthwhile and gratefully received.  And so the idea of turning your birthday party into a fundraiser was born.  I’ll tell you another time about those details, but for now, I want to thank you for forgiving me for giving up your birthday for Kawasaki Disease.  I have promised that I will not steal any more birthdays from you.

There are so many people to thank for their contribution to your birthday party, and it’s not for another 6 weeks! I will make sure I cover that when I blog about your event.  From local businesses donating prizes to entertainers offering free services, we’ve had a huge amount of support.  The local press have followed your story since we first approached them to help us raise awareness after you came home.  We’ve had cupcakes sold in your honour, and cash donations have started to hit the Virgin Money page.

And then there was this one thing, that started with a Tweet.  

Twitter and I are kind of new friends.  I set up your Twitter account not really knowing what I was going to do with it.  I still don’t really, but I dabble here and there and started to share your blogs when I’d worked out how to!  I mainly use it to hound celebrities in an attempt to increase the reach of your story and shine the spotlight on Kawasaki Disease.  I have had some successes; some of the key KD and Rare Disease organisations follow Freya’s Story.  We’ve had retweets from some celebrity Doctors, like Dr Miriam Stoppard and Dr David Bull.  One of the stars of TOWIE retweeted once, and we’ve had a couple from actresses and directors.  We set out on a bit of a challenge with a Kawadad from the other end of the country, (you know who you are!) but he has had more success than we have, lol!  I have a lot to learn about Twitter it would seem.

But, somewhere, on one sleepless night during their own Kawasaki ordeal, it would seem that the right person stumbled across your story.  They saw that we were raising money for the Kawasaki Research Collaboration between Imperial College London and Rady Children’s Hospital in San Diego.  And that person did a remarkable thing;

“…managed to get…some funding for research. 75 thousand pounds…”

Even though I’ve had that information for a couple of days now, I still struggle to let that sink in.  I think my response was something like “Are you serious? How is that even possible?!” which was met with a reply about the world not being all bad.

I received an e-mail from the charity too, but I still didn’t quite believe it Peanut.  How could we have inspired such a huge donation?   But it is true.  And if the donation can be counted towards the collaboration pot, it will be doubled. Meaning that single investment in research is worth £150,000!!

“…you may want to thank someone who raised awareness about the KD research thru her twitter activity: I found you guys late at night reading the posts from a @freya_story” 

Thank you for giving me a story to tell.  Whilst I would have given anything to have prevented you from going through this, I can take comfort in the fact that because this happened to you, great things might happen.  No amount of raising of awareness or funds will change what happened to our family 8 months ago.  The emotional scars will take a long time, perhaps forever, to heal.  What I hope it will do, what every parent who has experienced this with their child hopes, is that the research being undertaken now will change the future of Kawasaki Disease and the lives that it lays claim to.

I’m going to leave you with these lovely words, received from Ilsen Cafer (Fundraising Co-ordinator for COSMIC – Children of St Mary’s Intensive Care);

…You deserve to be very, very proud.  I can’t imagine how tough a time it must have been for you and your family when Freya was diagnosed, but your special little girl, her story and your courage have helped lots of parents, as well as inspired a donation which will make a difference to the lives of Kawasaki patients around the world.  Never underestimate the impact of your story, you’re doing a fantastic job!” 

“…Please tell Freya in her letter that she is our little COSMIC star and that she should be very proud that aged only 1 she has inspired so much more than most people ever do!”

It seems that I have so many people to thank, and so much to be thankful for, despite this terrible experience that we have all been through at the hands of this disease.  Most of all though, I have to thank you for being you.  You have got us through this.  You.

And then there’s one person whom I would like to be able to thank 75,000 times, and that is one very cool Italian dad who lives in Hong Kong.  Thank you from the bottom of our hearts.

FullSizeRender (1)

The Thing with Rare Diseases…

is that they happen to someone else.  At least that’s what I thought.  What are the odds of my little family being struck by some random illness that nobody has heard of? Well, I’ll tell you. 8:100,000. Those are the odds. 8 in every 100,000 children in the UK are diagnosed with this condition every year. The illness is called Kawasaki Disease. My daughter is Freya.

Today is National Rare Disease Day, so I thought I would focus on that for the subject of my latest blog post. I want to tell you what it means to have a rare disease enter your world.

The thing with a Rare Disease is…

They like playing hard to get.  Some of them are so well-disguised that they masquerade as a number of more common illnesses.  Take Kawasaki Disease.  You take your child to your GP with the symptoms of KD and you’ll most likely be sent home with the word ‘virus’ ringing in your ears. You’ll be told to give four-hourly paracetamol, interspersed with the same regular dose of ibuprofen; antipyretics to keep that troublesome fever down.  Days will pass, but you’ll believe the drugs will eventually do their work once the virus has run its course.  How many days do you let it run its course for? 3 days? Maybe more?  Did you know that there’s a UK medical protocol for dealing witha child  who has presented with a fever for more than 5 days? You’ll tell yourself that the rash that appeared after a couple of days is simply viral.  The eyes look bloodshot; wow this cold really has taken it’s toll on them. And your child is irritable and lethargic all at once, but aren’t all kids when they are poorly? You might even return to the GP, get a course of antibiotics, keep on with those painkillers to take the heat off the discomfort, literally.  Your GP might diagnose Scarlet Fever, or perhaps hand, foot and mouth.  Chances are, your child will not receive a diagnosis of KD until it’s too late. Until the vasculitis that has inflamed every blood vessel in your child’s body has managed to reach their little heart.  Coronary artery dilation and/or coronary artery aneurysms. There’s really only one thing that can cause those in a kid. Kawasaki Disease.

That’s not quite how it happened with us. We were one of the ‘lucky’ ones in that our daughter’s age and the day of the week played a huge part in getting her in the right place at the right time.  At 7 weeks old she was too young for Calpol, and on a Sunday there’s no GP to get it wrong. That said, Kawasaki Disease disguised itself as bacterial meningitis for the first week of Freya’s illness, and then decided to affect her body atypically, making the job of reaching a diagnosis all the more challenging.

It’s quite often a rebel without a cause. Where KD is concerned the cause is yet to be discovered. Without a cause, and with so many children presenting with the illness in a very independent way – not all children get the same symptoms at the same time – there’s no diagnostic test.  The treatment for the disease is effective, but we’re not really sure why.  Knowing the cause of this disease would open the door to swifter diagnosis and better treatment.  With KD it’s a bit of a race against time.  There’s a magical 10-day window within which to treat in order to improve the chances of the heart getting off a bit more lightly. Outside of that, the disease can get too much of a head start. Freya’s heart went from normal to screwed within 5 days.  The disease hid itself well for nearly 2 weeks, until on day 13 (unlucky for some) it went “ta-daa” on an echocardiogram. Nice move KD.

Rare means your doctor probably hasn’t seen it. They may not have even heard of it. So they’re most definitely not looking for it. I’ve spoken with GP’s who have not yet seen a case in their 20 year career. Naturally, doctors will work through the most likely culprits first. They’re not on high alert for some disease that quite frankly sounds ridiculous with its made-up name that conjures images of motorbikes (it’s not actually made up, it is named after Dr Tomasaku Kawasaki, who discovered the disease a few decades ago). But it sounds it. Some rare disorders don’t even have a name. In order to reach a diagnosis for a rare disorder, the medical professionals will have to go through a process of elimination with the more common illnesses that bear the same or similar symptoms. They will test for countless infectious diseases but draw a blank. Do you know, I actually thought they would take my daughter’s blood, put it into a computer and out would come the answer. I had no idea before this, that there were things you couldn’t test for. Silly really. Sometimes the Drs will try certain drugs, only to be baffled by the body’s lack of responsiveness. Our daughter had 4 different IV antibiotics entering her tiny little body, and yet she became more and more sick as the days went on. I couldn’t understand why the Drs weren’t making her better. But our child was diagnosed on day 13 and was treated accordingly. There are people out there with illnesses yet to be named, perhaps even discovered. Those people could wait years for a diagnosis. Two weeks felt like torture. I cannot imagine how that would have felt multiplied into months, let alone years.

If you’ve not heard of it, it can’t be that bad. Right? That’s what I thought. The day before Freya was diagnosed with KD she had a bone marrow aspirate taken in theatre under general anaesthetic. The moment they mentioned bone marrow, I knew they were looking for the ‘C’ word. What they found instead was a whole lot of healthy cells, and she was cleared of that. Relief.  But then the next morning you’re told that they’ve found it! You can’t quite believe it because the last 2 weeks have seemed like an eternity and now the wait is over! They tell you your child has Kawasaki Disease and you actually feel the tension in your shoulders disappear. Aren’t we lucky it’s only Kawasaki Disease. Never heard of that one so it can’t be a bad one. No, the bad stuff everyone has heard of. Leukaemia, meningitis…they’re the baddies aren’t they. No this Kawasaki Disease had to be ok. If it was that bad I’d have heard about it. Wouldn’t I? Except that it is that bad, but you don’t hear about it because your local children’s hospital has probably only seen 4 cases in the last year, and they all looked different.

Rare means there are so many unknowns.  If an illness is rare, it might not have been around for very long.  There might not be many known patients with the disease. Which makes treatment more tricky.  There is no standard UK protocol for the diagnosis and treatment of Kawasaki Disease.  That means you really are at the mercy of the doctors that you are dealing with. Again, I believe we were ‘lucky’.  From the moment a diagnosis was reached they worked tirelessly to aggressively handle this disease. NHS England gave permission for certain drugs to be used on Freya that had not been agreed for use in an infant.  They referred to her case as “a very severe presentation of Kawasaki Disease” remarking that the illness is particularly troublesome in very young babies.

Unknowns are hard to deal with, especially if you’re a bit of a control freak like me. I like to have all my ducks in a row. There’s no chance of that with this. And just as you begin to think things are looking up, KD throws you another curveball.   Long term prognosis is sketchy. But in all fairness, what long term studies have been carried out suggest that Freya might just come through this ok.

Rare is lonely. When you or your child is diagnosed with something pretty obscure you literally feel like the only person in the universe that is going through what you are. Because nobody had heard of KD it felt (still does sometimes) like they didn’t really appreciate the seriousness of it.  Even now, with everything I have shared through Freya’s Story, people ask “So, is she ok now then?”  Never quite quite how to answer that one.  Usually with a “Yes she’s doing really well..” When actually what I want to say is “Yeah, unless you count the fact that’s she now has a heart condition and we don’t know what’s around the corner…”  And it’s not just the general public either. You feel very alone when you’re dealing with Drs that can’t answer your questions because they just don’t know.

That’s where support groups come in. Through the various groups on Facebook I have connected with other parents like me who too have felt scared and lonely. Whilst all of our experiences might have differed slightly, one thing that unites us all is an understanding of the fear when you watch your child begin to slip away from you, and the sheer devastation of hearing that your child has been damaged by this disease. And let’s face it,  the heart is a pretty important organ.

Rare changes you. Since Freya’s illness, I have changed.  I suffer with anxiety, and was recently diagnosed with PTSD. I see a counsellor once every week for cognitive behavioural therapy to help me deal with the trauma of the last year. I find it hard to be around people who don’t understand, or don’t make the effort to. I probably find more comfort in chatting to a fellow ‘Kawamum’ online than I would get from a closest friend.  This experience has left me questioning everything I believed about my role in protecting my child.  I grieve for the healthy baby I gave birth to; the one with the perfect heart. And I am very much aware of our own mortality now. I am scared of dying, and I am scared of loss.

There is an upside. I have met some amazing and lovely people along the way. This experience has taught me that life really is precious and that you should embrace opportunities as they arise. I don’t have the strength for disappointment these days, so I have probably reduced my circle for now, a kind of damage limitation.  I take a lot of joy in meeting people who have been touched by Freya’s Story.   I get messages from strangers that remember when she has a medical appointment, or ask me how I got on at my counselling session. The well wishes and words of encouragement from those people has lifted me from the darkest of moods.

The support from friends and local businesses with prizes for a raffle that we will be drawing on Freya’s 1st birthday has been overwhelming. People are so generous, and I am very grateful to them. I may never come to terms with the fact that this happened to us, to our baby girl. But knowing that Freya has touched the hearts of so many has made this journey a little easier to travel.

So on this Rare Disease Day 2016, I would like to thank everyone out there who is helping to shine a light on Freya by sharing her story and supporting us with our ambition to raise awareness and much needed funding for research. Thank you ☺️


You can follow Freya’s Story with updates on her progress and other KD news at

Because life, at best, is bitter-sweet

It has been a little over 8 months since Freya was diagnosed with Kawasaki Disease following her hospital admittance on the 31st May 2015.  She was 7-weeks old.  Infants under 1 year are hit particularly hard by the illness, and are at greater risk of heart involvement.  The magic window for treatment that has the highest odds for reducing the risk of coronary artery dilation and/or aneurysms is considered to be 10 days.  Freya was diagnosed on day 13 when an echocardiogram showed significant dilation to her tiny coronary arteries, and she was transferred by ambulance to a specialist paediatric cardiac high dependency unit (HDU) in another hospital.

Since her diagnosis, Freya has had numerous ECG and echocardiograms performed at follow up appointments. Some of those appointments have shown no change, but two of those appointments showed some remarkable improvement that managed to incite a “Wow!” from her Cardiologist.  In September we were advised that her right coronary artery (RCA) had improved to within normal parameters (around 2mm), leaving just the left coronary artery (LCA) and left anterior descending (LAD) with reduced, but significant, dilation.  The aortic valve had ceased leaking some time before.

I remember at the time asking the cardiologist (who wasn’t our usual one due to a mix up in dates), whether the swift improvement was cause for concern in relation to longer-term issues, such as stenosis (narrowing of the coronary arteries), but he had said that there was no evidence to suggest that was the case.  And so I made my peace (kind of) with the condition of Freya’s heart, and accepted that things were improving and that her prognosis looked good, regardless of how scary it all still was.

Her last appointment in our local hospital was a disaster.  We were kept waiting for nearly 3 hours with no explanation before finally being seen by a consultant who felt under-qualified to deal with Freya’s case.  Nevertheless, she performed an echo, the results of which suggested there had been no change since the previous echo.  No change is good news in these cases – at least things hadn’t got any worse.  Had she told me there was some improvement, however, I would not have believed it, and immediately contacted the original hospital to request that we be moved back under the previous cardiologist.  Sometimes convenience isn’t the best option; I would travel 10 times the distance for Freya to be treated by someone that I trust and respect.

Today found us back in Leeds, back with the Cardiologist that first treated Freya, and has taken pretty good care of her ever since.  She is the same Cardiologist who took me in a room and explained the risks of Freya’s condition back in June; the same Cardiologist who I went to battle with over not giving Freya Warfarin despite the treatment protocols suggesting that was what she should have.  She made a strong case, one strong enough for me to put my trust in her.  It was the hardest decision I have ever had to make, but it appears to have been the right one.  Freya has been thriving since her diagnosis, she appears to show no adverse affects, no night terrors, no evidence of joint pain, none of the things I see mentioned in many social media forums.

So come on then, tell us the news….

Ok, so today Freya had an ECG and an echo.  As usual, the ECG showed that heart function is all good.  During the echo, the Doctor remarked that Freya’s heart function was “Beautiful!”  She measured the arteries at their widest points and remarked that she could see two aneurysms on the RCA.  I was surprised by this, as previously we had been advised that the RCA had normalised, and I wondered aloud whether as the artery had remodeled, could any ‘true’ aneurysms now be more noticeable (Freya’s arteries were significantly dilated all the way along, without the typical balloon shape aneurysm you expect to see when you use the ‘a’ word).  The doctor went in to look again, and could not get the same image, or any image to show the aneurysms she believed she had seen.  Perhaps it was a bad angle?  Maybe Freya wriggled too much for her to get the same view?  I’m not sure, but the Doctor concluded that all three coronary arteries (the RCA, LCA and LAD) appeared to have remodeled to within normal parameters!  Wow! That’s cause for celebration!

During the acute stage of the illness, we were advised not to expect to see any improvement at all until Freya was at least one year old.  To have seen her arteries reduce to near-normal levels in just 8 months is remarkable!  She truly is a miracle.  Or maybe this is just the case with tiny babies?  Sure, they are hit hard by the illness and more of their little hearts suffer, but their organs are still developing and perhaps they just compensate for the damage and work harder to repair it?  Who knows? Research is still very much in it’s infancy (thus my passion for fundraising for this cause).

We sat down, and I asked my husband to dress Freya whilst I asked the questions I had prepared before I went in.  These are the questions I wanted to get answers for:-

  • What do you consider to be the current risks?
  • What are the exploratory steps we can expect for Freya?
  • When would those next steps take place, i.e. at what age?
  • What is the view on Reye’s Syndrome, and what are the suggestions in relation to aspirin during the Chicken Pox vaccination period?

Before I had the chance to ask my questions, the Doctor started to answer the first.  She exclaimed that the improvement was indeed remarkable, but that the speed at which Freya’s arteries had remodeled was unexpected and gave her cause for concern.  She knew that I understand that an echo can only see approximately 3mm of the length of the coronaries, and explained that she was concerned about what was happening beyond what she could see.  She aired the same concern that I had raised back in the Summer when I told another Cardiologist that I was worried that the swift remodeling could result in higher risk of stenosis.  Sometimes I wonder if I am bloody psychic!  She said that she would be happier if she could take a closer look at Freya’s heart to satisfy herself that the whole picture was as good as what she could see.

So, what’s the good news?

Ok, so the good news is that Freya’s heart has shown remarkable improvement, basically remodeling itself to where it should be, or would have been under normal circumstances.  If the next steps prove that the bigger picture is the same, the Cardiologist feels she would be comfortable to stop the aspirin.  That means that Freya would continue to be monitored into adulthood, that further tests (exercise stress testing, MRI, etc) would continue to take place during that period of monitoring, but that she would be treatment free.  Fantastic! That would be almost ‘normal’.  Wouldn’t it?  Wouldn’t that just be normal?

Yeah, so that’s sweet isn’t it?  What’s there to feel bitter about?

Alright, alright, I know what you are thinking!  For months I’ve suffered mentally over the prognosis for Freya and the fear that comes with having a child with a heart condition.  I should be unconditionally happy, right?  It’s just that the way they want to find out what is going on with the bigger picture is to carry out an angiogram.

“An angiogram is a test that’s used to find out more about your heart. It can help to show if blood vessels called coronary arteries, which supply blood to your heart, are narrowed or blocked. If they are, it can show where and how severely they are affected. It can also see how well your heart is pumping blood.”

Whilst a CT or MRI are preferable in a child as young as Freya because they are non-invasive procedures, an angiogram is considered (by our Doctor) superior to a cardiac CT or MRI scan in that it provides a clearer image where the arteries concerned are very small, like in a young child.  The procedure involves inserting a catheter (a thin tube) into an artery in the groin or wrist and guiding the catheter to the coronary arteries where dye is inserted and a number of x-ray images are then taken.  Freya would need to be sedated, likely to go under general anaesthetic.  Not only is it invasive, but it is a procedure where the risks are greater the younger the child.

It is considered pretty standard practice to carry out an angiogram, or other exploratory test, a year after diagnosis with KD.  However, an angiogram is not performed in very young children without careful consideration.  We were told that the catheter that is used is kind of a one size fits all; they will use the same sized tube to enter Freya’s tiny arteries that they would use on an adult.  We were also advised that young babies’ arteries are quite sticky, and have been known to grasp onto the catheter,  causing the artery to spasm.  This can cause a heart attack.  The Cardiologist said that the hospital will be reluctant to carry out the procedure on Freya at such a young age (she will be 14 months old when she is a year post-diagnosis), but said that she feels that Freya is a special case and that it is important that this step be taken.  She says she will convince them to do the procedure.  I replied, “Thank you…I think.  I mean, on the one hand you are keen to move things forward and a clear result could end with us stopping the aspirin.  But you are expediting a potentially risky procedure and I am not sure how I feel about that.”

But I do trust her.  I think.  Didn’t stop me from e-mailing the world’s leading Kawasaki Disease expert for her opinion though…

And that’s where I am right now.  I’ve written this down to provide an update, but mainly to try and work out how I feel about it all.  I’m not sure, I feel quite numb.  So I am just going to dump all the crappy thoughts that are running through my head right now, and hopefully the answers will come to me over the coming days or weeks.  Excuse the rantings of a confused mind…

  • Here we go again, as soon as I let my guard down and ignore my instincts, someone goes and throws a curveball!
  • I knew this was going to happen!
  • I knew that there was a chance that the fast improvement was too good to be true.
  • What if I lose her after all?
  • What if I can’t bear to watch her go under general anaesthetic again? It was like watching her die on that table.
  • What if she doesn’t wake up from the anaesthetic?
  • What if she has a heart attack?
  • What if she dies?
  • What if she dies because of the procedure and they tell me everything was ok anyway?
  • What if there are signs of stenosis? They can’t operate on her this young anyway.
  • What if there are no signs of stenosis, but it happens when they’re not looking and she dies?
  • What if we say no to the procedure? How much potential danger would we be putting her  in?

I think that’s about all I can figure out from the fog right now.  Somewhere in there, though, there is a tiny voice of hope.  ‘Ant’ is doing her best to drown her out, but I hear her.  She sounds how I imagine Freya to sound in a year or so.  I see those eyes through the fog too.  They are looking at me, huge and wide, and they are saying “I’m going to be ok, Mummy.”  This kid is miraculous.  She is made of something stronger than you and I were made of.  Maybe, just maybe, she is going to prove them all wrong.  Maybe, (and I don’t consider myself religious so this just came as a huge surprise to me, hitting me like a juggernaut and reducing me to sobs), just maybe, someone heard my prayer….


An Exercise in Mindfulness

  1.  the quality or state of being conscious or aware of something.
  2. a mental state achieved by focusing one’s awareness on the present moment, while calmly acknowledging and accepting one’s feelings, thoughts, and bodily sensations, used as a therapeutic technique.


The thing is with this kind of stuff is that it all sounds a bit new age, off in a forest finding yourself whilst hugging a tree, doesn’t it?  Well it does to me anyway.  But I was given my homework at the last session (my first session) so I thought I should play along if I really wanted to beat this thing.  The counsellor gave me a pile of papers last week, and had ticked a number of the exercises that she wanted me to practice.  I am undergoing Cognitive Behavioural Therapy to deal with trauma; I apparently have post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD).  I say apparently, because to be honest I’m pretty embarrassed with the diagnosis.  I mean, you hear the word PTSD and are immediately met with images of soldiers on the frontline in Afghanistan, or firefighters coming out of the Twin Towers.  I have never once in my life imagined a normal mum, with a normal life, who can’t shake off the events of the last year when her daughter was diagnosed with a serious illness.   And that is who I am (except maybe less stress on the ‘normal’).

Anyway, I shared an image on my social media pages that I created last week (my brain), designed to illustrate what goes on in the mind when it’s owner has a bit of a tough time handling a traumatic event.  Although I don’t think I am worthy of the PTSD diagnosis, I do understand what is going on up there at the minute and it helped me to show it in a diagram.  The long and short of it (no pun intended) is that the events of last year have become too big for my brain to process.  Those short-term memories should have made their way down into the long-term memory by now, but they’ve got themselves stuck.  And because they are stuck in my short-term memory, they are there, all the time; a constant reminder of those dark, dark days.  Sometimes they are that there, that it feels like they are here.   Now let me tell you there is a massive difference between recalling a painful memory, and intrusive memories and flashbacks.  I was ‘blessed’ with a pretty remarkable memory, particularly for words.  I can recite poetry that I’ve not read in years, I can recall the exact way I felt when I was thirteen years old and my Grandad passed away, and yes dear Husband, I can remember what was said in that argument in 1998.  I don’t seem to be able to let go of things that have evoked a strong emotional response.  Not a bad thing, unless you feel most things with the intensity of a Tsunami, in which case you find yourself with a hell of a lot of stuff up there.  But I digress slightly.

I’d say the main difference between a memory and a flashback is the intensity of the emotional response.  Of course we all feel a little sad when we recall a loss, or a particularly difficult time in our lives.  But when those events have been properly processed, they evoke just a small amount of the emotion originally felt.  When those events haven’t been correctly processed because the brain just couldn’t manage the overwhelming task, they are recalled with all the strength of emotion that was felt the moment that it happened.  I think it might help (me more than anyone, perhaps) if I tell you what kind of intrusive thoughts and/or flashbacks I am talking about.

Intrusive Thoughts

These vary from images that flash in front of my eyes when I am least expecting it (though not to be confused with a ‘flashback’ – you’ll see why later), to a little Voice of Doom in my head that likes to play Devil’s advocate with the ever-so-slightly-smaller Voice of Hope.  You might have heard me talk about ‘Ant‘ before (Automatic Negative Thoughts)?  Well she’s a whole other kettle of fish!  I don’t seem to hear much from her these days, but I often wonder if she is pulling the strings of the Voice of Doom.  Ok, so now I sound like I have multiple personality disorder, and whilst I do not profess to be particularly knowledgeable on that subject, I can confidently say that I do not! These parts of the brain exist in all of us, I just like to give them a name as we are so well acquainted.

So, let me give you a few examples.  

If you are old enough (that is, as old as me) then you might remember that 1980’s toy, the ViewMaster?  Hang on, I’ll find you a pic…Unknown.jpg…There you go.  When I close my eyes, it’s like an automatic ViewMaster, presenting snapshot after snapshot of memories.  Bad memories.  Mostly it’s Freya; lying in her hospital cot pleading at me with her eyes, gasping for breath, disappearing into the MRI tunnel or her eyes rolling into the back of her head as she was forced into sleep on an operating table.  The worst snapshot is the one of her lifeless, limp little body at the moment that I realised this was going to be bad.

Sometimes, it’s not Freya, but me that I see.  Like watching my own life through some kind of out of body experience.  That’s what happened when I went to bed last night.  Image after image of all the moments when I felt most frightened and most vulnerable during my 6-week incarceration courtesy of 3 of Yorkshire’s finest hospitals.  The moment the Cardiologist took me to a room and told me she couldn’t do anything to save Freya from the worst of risks.  The moment I tried to go back to the HDU, to my little girl, and slid down the wall because I couldn’t bear to take one more look at her if I was going to have to lose her.  The times when visiting hours were over and my lonely evenings began.  The long walk down those LGI corridors at 3am when my body betrayed my resolve to stay awake by Freya’s bedside all night (they wouldn’t let me sleep on the ward for that period).  And standing in the hospital Chapel doors, not really knowing why, but writing a prayer all-the-same; “Dear God, prove them wrong.”

Those are some of the things that I see when I close my eyes.  So I don’t.  I stay awake for as long as I can possibly keep my eyes open.  Partly because that means there are less hours for Freya to sleep ‘unsupervised’, partly because of what lies behind closed lids.

And then there are the thoughts.  The what ifs, buts and maybes.  I’ll be brushing Freya’s hair, and wonder whether she will have her brother’s curls…“What if you never see it?”  I’ll be listening to her gurgle and babble away in that special little language of hers and think about how I can’t wait to be able to chat with her…“As long as nothing bad happens before then.”  I swat those thoughts away like pesky flies, but the sneering tone lingers.  Every thought I have about the future is met with a voice warning me not to tempt fate.


These are less common.  It’s hard to tell the difference between a flashback and an intrusive thought/memory sometimes.  I have mini ‘flashphoto’ moments at times.  I don’t know if you have ever seen that movie with Brad Pitt, Se7en?  <<Spoiler Alert>> There’s a scene right near the end when he opens the box and just for a split second you see an image of his wife’s head in the box.  It’s that quick, you don’t even know if you really saw it, and it’s only when you’ve seen it a few times that you start to expect it.  Well that happens to me with images of Freya, except sometimes the image sharpens until it has altered reality.  Just yesterday, I looked down at her little post-bath face framed by a fluffy white towel and was immediately taken back to the moment I first held her in my arms, wrapped in a hospital issue blanket.  Without any warning, a rush of sadness overwhelmed me and the tears that are always there at the brink started to fall.

I think for me, the differentiation between the intrusions and a flashback, is in both the intensity and their ability to alter reality.  The intrusive images are played to me one by one, like you would see with every click of that little red ViewMaster.  They are disturbing, upsetting and unnerving.  But I can shake my head and try to make them go away.  The flashbacks are different.  Whether it be seeing Freya’s face change right in front of my eyes to the point that I am again holding my sick child in my arms, to reliving a particular event, they steal into my life without warning and manage to transport me back in time to when it was all very real and very raw.  When the ‘real’ flashbacks happen, I am cold, rooted to the spot, I tremble, I sweat, my chest tightens and I can’t breathe.  And I cry, I cry a lot.

There have been a number of triggers for the ‘real’ flashbacks.  Mainly smells and sounds that take me right back to those weeks in the hospital.  The phone rings at the wrong time and it’s the monitors beeping incessantly to tell the nurses the IV has stopped running, again.  Freya’s bedtime toy starts to play it’s little tune in the middle of the night, and we’re right back there, in that cubicle, her eyes staring blankly at the glowing seahorse that soothes her to sleep.  I can’t sing a certain song, or hear certain pieces of music without being stopped in my tracks as my surroundings and environment change around me.  Having Freya’s old cot by the side of my bed is a major trigger.  The silhouette of the bars in the dim light of our bedroom at night; I find myself constantly checking the baby that isn’t there (she is in her own room now).

I feel like I am constantly being hijacked by my fears and my memories.  They don’t want to let me go, they don’t want me to let go of them.  And as warped as it might sound, I’m not sure if I want to let go of them… 

Letting Go

What does that actually mean?  You know what I am most scared of?  I’m scared of beating this, and forgetting.  Scared I’ll stop appreciating what we all went through and begin to take life for granted.  Scared that if I forget how it felt, I won’t fight to make sure Freya has the best life she can possibly have; that we all will.  And because I feel like my whole self has been defined by the events of the last year, I am scared that if I let it go completely I will not know who I am, and I will be lost.

But I do know that I have to let this go.  I have to open my mind to the treatment I am being offered.  I have to shift these things from my short-term memory down into the long, where they will never be forgotten, but where they will cease to have control over my life.


Today I started the treatment in earnest.  During the session, I had to undertake a Mindfulness of Emotions exercise.  I was already crying before we started; I had been asked to think of 5 events in my life that had had either a positive or negative emotional effect upon me.  Always the over-thinker, I struggled to think of them and my mind went blank.  I thought of a couple of things – Grandad dying (bad), Eliza’s birth (bad), Finlay’s birth (good)… Nothing else would come, absolute blank.  Obviously the situation with Freya goes in there at number 5, but we had to agree to leave number 4 for next time.  I think the plan is that you practice the techniques whilst processing some old memories/events so that by the time you reach the biggie you are an expert in handling thoughts and emotions.  Something like that.

So, I sat in my chair opposite the therapist, and she handed me some paper towels to wipe my eyes (I have no idea why they don’t realise they might need tissues for these things!).  She told me to close my eyes, lay my feet flat on the floor and sit straight with my hands on my lap.  All I had to do was to sit still, feel my body in the chair, and when a thought came along I was to accept the emotion that it brought with it, and dismiss the thought. What actually happened was a full blown panic attack.  I felt the anxiety building as I sat there facing the counsellor with my eyes shut (did she not hear that I have an issue with that?!)  I was conscious that my feet wouldn’t stay still, and I was wringing the tissue in my hands.  Every inch of me wanted to get up and run, and it was one of the most uncomfortable things I have ever done.  When I stopped breathing, and then started gasping for breath (I know! Idiot!!) I had to open my eyes.  The counsellor had a chat with me about what had happened, and she said that I was trying to run from what I might see with my eyes closed, and we should start again.  This time I would face the window, so I might feel under less scrutiny.

The remaining 15 minutes of the exercise were tougher than I imagined.  But in that state of quiet awareness, I could actually see the thoughts arriving and feel the physical effects that those thoughts were having on my whole body.  It was intense, and surprising.  Sitting there in that state, I was acutely aware of how my body reacted to the thoughts as they intruded.  My toes were actually curling, my whole body squirmed, and my breathing became more rapid.  And then, of course there were the tears, but I never had that much of an issue producing those.  Sitting there allowing myself to feel the emotions whilst trying really hard to tell the thoughts to bugger off, I felt like one of those shove ha’penny machines at the amusement park.  A mind full of thoughts spilling over into my consciousness, causing the emotions to come rushing out in waves.  Towards the end I felt bruised.  But I did notice that within the last few minutes I began to notice the sounds around me, and no longer noticed the thoughts.  Cars going by the window, the scrape of a chair from the floor above, the buzzing of the PC on the desktop.  And as I noticed those noises, and the noises in my head began to quiet themselves, I felt my shoulders drop and I was still.

My homework is to practice that every day for at least 15 minutes.  As I am not sleeping, and am delaying bedtime, the counsellor suggested that I do the exercise in bed.  It’s like training your brain to accept thoughts without entertaining them, to feel the emotion that those thoughts evoke, but to focus on something else so that those emotions can be let go.  Right now, my thoughts are being overindulged.  They need putting on the naughty step, and I need to stop allowing them to dictate how I am going to live my life.


Wish me luck.

To Immunise or not to Immunise…

…That is the Kawaquestion!

If you’ve been following Freya’s Story through my blog or on Facebook (, then you’ll know that one of the hurdles I have been trying to get over since her diagnosis and treatment for Kawasaki Disease is the question of when to immunise.  When is the important question here – it is not a question of ‘if’ for me.  Freya is my 3rd child; I had the older two vaccinated in line with the standard UK immunisation schedules without hesitation.  They both had the (then controversial) MMR vaccination that was vilified for years, for those claims to be later contradicted by the very doctor who made them.  I am not an antivaxer (yes, that is a word that is banded around various mum networks).  I can’t say I’m a provaxer either to be fair; in all things medical I am a conformist.  I trust the NHS and the doctors to have made the right decisions.  Well I used to anyway.

Now before I go on to share all the information I have in relation to this subject, there are a couple of things you should know.  First of all, the information I have received is contradictory to say the least.  I’ve even had different information from the same doctor, just on a different day.  And therein lies one of the biggest issues, and the key reason why we should be campaigning for standard protocols for treatment and care of Kawasaki patients.  But that’s a whole other blog.  Secondly, I take no responsibility for the decisions you may make in relation to this issue.  I am not a medical professional; I am just a mum that wants to do the right thing for her child.  I could not protect my baby from Kawasaki Disease; I have to be able to protect her from the other nasties, if I can.  I will share the information I have and where I’ve found it.  You also need to understand that Freya’s case is an individual one.  We certainly haven’t found a doctor in the UK who has received a patient as young as Freya where Kawasaki’s is concerned.  Generally children are older (commonly between 6 months and 5 years) and have therefore already begun their immunisation journey.  Infants diagnosed with this disease have often already had at least the first tranche of jabs (leading some to believe the vaccine to have been the trigger that KD needed to start it’s evil – a theory that I don’t discount, in fact I find it a very interesting theory with some validity and would not be surprised if it is confirmed as one of the triggers in the not too distant future).  Indeed, some of the vaccines state an increased risk of Kawasaki Disease in the patient information – information we often don’t read before we give consent for the needle to go in.  Again, I do not want to be a scaremonger, and it is absolutely not my intention to send cats amongst pigeons.  I’ve already said I am a provaxer.  I am pro-choice in all things – but I believe in those choices being informed if you are someone like me who needs to know it all (and often thinks she does, lol!).  

Freya was 7 weeks old when she became sick.  She was hospitalised on the very first day that she showed a single symptom (fever) and spent a number of days on a paediatric HDU, several weeks in a Children’s Hospital, and a week on a Cardiac HDU.  We hadn’t yet seen a health visitor, and the appointment for her first set of immunisations (8 weeks) has just come through.  I guess due to her condition, and later the treatment she received, it wasn’t possible to start the process of vaccinating with Freya whilst she was in the hospital.  She was 7 weeks old when she went in, and 13 weeks when she came out, so she was already behind schedule.  She received a blood transfusion, intravenous immunoglobulin (a blood product) and intravenous and oral steroids.  All of these have an impact on the immune system, rendering vaccination difficult for a certain period of time.  And I can’t be more specific than that, because that is one of the biggest areas of contradiction I have come across when researching this subject, and the reason why now, at nearly 10 months old, Freya has not had a single vaccination.

Some might wonder why that is an issue.  Plenty of parents (those antivaxers) make the decision not to immunise their children against some or even all of the diseases that the immunisation schedules seek to protect them from.  There are children who are unable to receive the immunisations because of poor, weakened or non-existent immunity.  We vaccinate the many to protect the few; herd immunity.  I could trust that everyone else has been protected, so Freya will be ok among the herd.  But, what if…  And then there is chicken pox – we don’t routinely vaccinate for that here in the UK (they do in the States).  If you Google “chicken pox and aspirin” you will find one big reason why aspirin and kids don’t mix; Reye’s Syndrome, a rare but potentially fatal illness linked to the fever associated with Chicken Pox and Influenza in children taking aspirin.  Ok, so the link has been found where high doses of aspirin are taken, and not yet with the low anti-platelet doses that a KD kid is prescribed, but nonetheless it’s a nasty illness and one I don’t want to take any chances with.  Freya has been through enough.

So what happens if you have a child who has not been immunised, and you are concerned about them coming into contact with what others would consider pretty innocuous illnesses?  Let me tell you what happens with us.  Freya has not been to a baby group; not baby massage, or baby music, or baby yoga.  Hell, she hasn’t even been to a playgroup, and when my older two get invited to a kids party, Freya stays at home.  Don’t get me wrong; we have not become social recluses.  Instead I apply my common sense to the activities we will undertake.  I know there might be someone in the coffee shop who has the flu.  Why is that kid in the shopping centre not at school? Could they have chicken pox?  I can’t hide us away from the whole world, but I can reduce the risk of her coming into contact with these nasty germs and bugs.  I call it damage limitation. She has one or two little friends that she sees from time to time, but only when they are well.  And don’t forget she has an older brother and sister who are exposed to all manner of things at school every day – we don’t make them wear a mask!  It is a source of sadness for me though.  Freya is such a happy, sociable child, and I worry about the effect this lack of exposure to her peers might have on her development.  I want her to laugh and play with other children, to learn how to share, to grow bonds and discover new things.  Instead there is a lot of singing and dancing going on in this house, which isn’t a bad thing (unless you’ve heard my singing!!). And with a bit of luck we can catch up with those immunisations soon and provide what we believe to be a little protective bubble around our child before it is too late for her to start over.  The knock-on effect of KD will be huge – when I return to work, she will have to go to some form of childcare.  She will be over a year old, and will never have been with anyone else other than her close family.  That’s going to be a tough one for both of us to handle…

Let me go back to the beginning of Freya’s immunisation journey.  While we were in the hospital with Freya we were advised that she shouldn’t have the immunisations, first because of her condition, and secondly because of the medication.  A lady used to pop her head in our cubicle door every other day with an immunisation leaflet and I repeated often that we had been advised Freya would have to be left to catch up.  I was promised an individualised immunisation schedule to leave the hospital with; it never materialised.  I made a number of calls to the hospital to enquire about when I could start the process, and to the Health Visiting team to ask them to stop the weekly postal reminders telling me what I already knew; Freya had not received her first immunisations.  Eventually I got the call from the hospital that advised I could give her any killed (inactive) vaccinations immediately (she was discharged one month after treatment for KD), but that I should wait 3 months post steroid treatment for any live ones.

I did a bit of research, because I was convinced there should also be a timescale for receiving vaccinations after a blood transfusion.  All avenues confirmed that vaccinations should not be given until 6 months after a transfusion.  Not to mention the varying timescales quoted for giving vaccinations after IVIG!  But all my hospital ever referred to was the steroid treatment, I guess because that is an immuno-suppressant.  But what of the other things? Had they forgotten what she had been given? I felt uneasy with the advice, so I sat on it for a while.

At a follow-up appointment with Rheumatology, I asked about whether Freya should be vaccinated against Chicken Pox (Varicella).  The doctor said that in the UK we only vaccinate children who are at high risk of contracting the disease.  I said that whilst Freya wasn’t at higher risk of contracting chicken pox, the potential consequences of her contracting the disease whilst taking aspirin could be catastrophic.  He agreed to take the issue away, and on the 19th August 2015 I received a letter confirming that they believed it was “reasonable for Freya to receive vaccination against Chicken Pox, both in relation to the issue regarding ongoing treatment with aspirin and the small degree of risk of developing [RS] and also the small risks that Freya may require treatment with immunosuppression therapy in the future…”.   Freya had been weaned off steroid therapy a lot more quickly than originally planned when the gastrointestinal bleeding started. From memory, it was the 8th July 2015 when she took her last oral prednisolone; that meant she could have the live vaccines, including CP, anytime after the 8th October 2015; “…it is important that Freya does not receive this until at least 3 months following…the last day Freya received the steroid treatment…”.  I still felt uneasy, and decided to wait until our next follow-up appointment to discuss.  It was at that appointment that I shared all the research that I had done, and got a referral to Immunology.  I had to wait until yesterday for that appointment.

I wonder if now might be a good time to share what I have learned, from the internet (reliable sources, like the NHS and the American Heart Association) and from medical professionals from London to California…


From the list above, all vaccines are inactive with the exception of the following live vaccines – Rotavirus, MMR, Children’s Flu vaccine (note that for the children’s flu vaccine, the nasal spray is live, however there is an injectable inactive flu virus available).


These are just a few examples of the responses I received from medical professionals, and I can say that my internet research has thrown up much the same; anything from 3 months to 12 months.  Helpful, right!  My gut feeling was telling me I should err on the side of caution, and follow the advice of the US doctor who is considered the leading Kawasaki Specialist in the World – she calls herself a ‘Kawasakiologist’ and I believe she deserves the title.  Our GP agreed that Freya qualified for the injectable (inactive) flu vaccine.  My decision was made.  Well, kind of.  I had decided I wanted to get Freya caught up on the inactive vaccines immediately, then discuss the issue of the live ones with our Immunologist.  Chances were, by the time we got any decisions we would be nearing that 12 month mark anyway, so it was a win-win.  But our ever cautious GP decided that if we were speaking to an Immunologist anyway, there was no harm in waiting for that meeting before we started the immunisation process, and he felt happier to wait for clear direction from her.  So, again we would have to wait.

So yesterday we had that appointment with the Immunologist.  I was all geared up to go in and cover all my questions, but unfortunately an hour’s wait with a baby that has decided that a high pitched squeal is the best means of communication made the whole process a little trickier than I had anticipated!  The doctor was the Infectious Diseases Consultant who treated Freya when she arrived at the Children’s Hospital on day 8 of her illness.  That was nice, as I had the opportunity to thank her for her compassion, support and tireless determination to get to the root of Freya’s condition (especially as I was quite a difficult ‘customer’ who asked lots and lots of questions, and even accused them of breaking Freya’s heart at one point!)  She seemed genuinely pleased to see Freya looking so well.  She received the news that we had seen some improvement in her coronaries since the acute stage of the illness with a broad smile, and she was happy that Freya has not had anything more than one little cough and cold since her hospitalisation.  I expected her to call me a muppet for being a cautious and over-protective mother, but instead she said she felt I was doing the right things, which was reassuring.

I came away from the appointment with a solution, individualised for Freya.  I still don’t have a definitive answer about the timescales related to immunising after IVIG.  But then why would I?  The fact that I can quote at least 5 different timescales from medical papers and journals across the world tells me a lot of them are guessing. I’ve read that medics aren’t completely sure why IVIG even works in the case of KD – they are still trying to understand what causes the illness in the first place, so I guess it would be near impossible to understand why the treatment works. It just does (in most cases).  The Immunologist told me that they deal with children who have compromised immunity as a result of a bone marrow transplant, for example.  Those children are given immunisations  in line with the hospital guidelines and they do not wait 12 months.  That said, she agreed that they had learned more than they previously knew about KD from Freya.  Presenting at just 7 weeks old, and having had no previous immunisations, she is a bit of an unusual case.  So they have agreed to follow a similar process to that of a bone marrow transplant patient.

What are they going to do?

They have taken blood samples from Freya in order to test her body’s immunity status.  They will be testing Freya’s immunoglobulin levels, and lymphocytes (T-cells).  Depending on those results (and I am sorry, I didn’t ask what result they would be expecting or what a low or high result might indicate, or whether there was a chance they might just be reading ‘borrowed’ antibodies as a result of the circulating IVIG – I will ask that when we discuss results), they will start the routine inactive vaccines and the injectible (inactive) flu vaccine.  After a period of time following those (I think she said 6 weeks), Freya’s immunoglobulins will be tested again to check her immune response to those vaccines.  Assuming they get the right result (whatever that might be), they will then progress to live vaccines, including chicken pox.  If we get moving quickly, Freya may even make it in time to have the MMR vaccination at precisely the right time.  I have some decisions to make about Rotavirus (which I believe is time-specific so she may already be considered too late) and Meningitis B, as both have stated increased risks of contracting Kawasaki Disease in the patient information.  I know it is incredibly rare for KD to reoccur, but show me one parent of a kid with a rare condition who finds that word reassuring.

Yes, I am still confused as to what the right answer is about timescales for vaccinations post treatment Kawasaki Disease.  But, I think I have a great solution for me, for Freya.  Rather than guess based on the varied guidelines out there, we are going to take a look at Freya as an individual.  Actually take a look inside and see what is going on, and make the decisions based on what she tells us.  The Immunologist has always said that Freya showed them the path to a diagnosis, and that they learned so much from her.  Seems she is going to teach them something new.  And as much as I probably do their heads in with my questions and powerpoint presentations, I do know that they respect me for it and that they are luckily not too arrogant as to discount this mum’s research and opinions.  She actually said it was helpful and told Freya that she is as well as she is because of her “amazing mum”. I don’t know about that, but in a sea of negativity and low moments, I’ll take that right now.

Whatever I learn from this experience, I will share.  Every Kawasaki case is different, no matter how similar some of the stories might seem.  No wonder it is a tricky one to spot, diagnose, treat and understand.  I hope in my lifetime they find the cause so I can finally understand why this happened to us, to my little Peanut.

Our Rheumatologist said that the subject of immunisations in these cases is “contentious” and currently being debated.  Another said that “guidance is not clear as there are no trials/studies to guide us for this exact situation…” and “…is a balance involving unknowns…”  He gave his opinion and advice, stating that “…there are other equally ‘correct’ versions too!”  No shit!

I’ll leave you with a few of the comments that I received from KD specialists here and in the US, which might help to dispel a few myths relating to IVIG and immunity.


And in case you can’t read that, I have pasted below:

“The reason not to give live vaccines after IVIG treatment (has nothing to do with steroids) is that your daughter has received antibodies poled from 10,000 adult blood donors who have antibodies against the viruses in the live vaccines. Therefore, the live viruses are inactivated by the circulating IVIG that is still detectable 11 months after administration…it is not dangerous to give the live vaccines…it’s just that they will be inactivated and the body will not make a lasting response. All killed vaccines are fine to give once your child is past the acute phase. 3 months sounds like a good period to wait. All live viruses vaccines should be delayed one year after IVIG.”

“We don’t usually stop aspirin when we give chicken pox vaccine for our [patients] with serious aneurysms. The risk of Reyes’ Syndrome was associated with higher doses of aspirin and not the very low dose used for the anti-platelet effect in KD patients with aneurysms. There is no data to support the notion that low dose aspirin is a risk. That being said, Reyes’ Syndrome [is] terrible and it should be easy to stop aspirin for 2 weeks. Clopidogrel can be substituted for aspirin during that time.”

“Your daughter’s immunity is not compromised by KD. It can be compromised by steroids, but only while actually taking the steroids. Your daughter’s immunity has been boosted by the IVIG she received so she is quite protected from all routine infections for the next year. There is no evidence that children with KD have immune defects that make them more susceptible to routine infectious agents.”

“…The issue of when to vaccinate children who have received…IVIG…arises because the antibodies present in the IVIG may prevent an adequate response to live vaccines. This is less clear in the case of vaccines that do not contain live organisms. The second issue is that steroids may diminish immune response and also make live vaccines dangerous. If Freya has been off steroids for 3 months she can go ahead with all the killed vaccines…”

“…The IVIG may prevent live vaccines working for over 6 months, and may interfere with MMR vaccine working. However MMR is not needed until after 11 months of age so unless there is a local measles outbreak she does not need MMR until the normal age…”

“Rotavirus vaccine is supposed to be given before 24 weeks of age which Freya may be beyond; it is probably not worth giving it at this stage…”

“…Varicella vaccine [chicken pox] should be given but as both steroids and IVIG may prevent it working I would suggest waiting at least 6 months from the IVIG and steroids before giving it…”