Trying to Catch a Break

On the whole most people know, I try to stay positive.  I really do.  I can not see the point in too much moping and expending precious energy on griping over what can't be changed.

But lately things have been tough and I have to ask the question:

When are we going to catch a break?

 

And it isn't just us.  A myriad of my friends are all struggling the same.  Bills are stock piling, jobs are scarce.  Positive attitude waning.

 

People say every generation goes through this stressful economic period at sometime or other in their life.  How do they get through it?

 

I like to think that we can say, there are more important things than money.  There are.  But money, more to the point, lack of it is the biggest cause of stress.  

 

Good health, people say, we should be grateful for.  But with a son with severe Cerebral Palsy and husband with various on going ailments, I can do without stress causing me to feel ill.

 

I know this is a bad day.  I have a bug and am feeling low.  I can hear the wind howling past the windows and I am inclined to think this long, cold winter may never end.

 

But I do have to ask :

 

Are things going to pick up?  For anyone?

 

 

 

 

Low Patch

I appear to be having one.  A low patch that is.  I have been perfectly fine, enjoying the brisk Autumn weather and getting lots done and then BANG.  It has like the Motivation Monster has been in the middle of the night and sucked it all out of me.

People say that is often the case after you have had a good couple of weeks.  Or a great event.  This is most annoying.  I hate that I do not seem to have any control over it.  I can't do anymore than I already am to keep myself upbeat.  All the other factors in life at the moment are not in my control.  Most of the time I can separate stressful things and by taking them individually deal with it.  But sometimes things raise their heads all at once, screaming 'Me first!  Me first!' and it feels like I am drowning.

Now going on past experience these phases, thankfully, only seem to last a couple of days, but they feel like an eternal stretch to me.  When, to keep up with life as it is at the moment - with a young family - I need to be tip top all the time just to keep our head above the water.  As my blog title was created to represent - to keep sailing along smoothly on our lake of life, my feet are paddling like crazy underneath.

A lack of sleep never helps, and I have to remind myself that I haven't had a long period of solid nights sleeps for almost nine years.  Sometimes I have to remind myself that our plate is slighter fuller than a lot of peoples and life is not as straight forward for me and my family.  Sometimes I have to remember to give myself a break if the house isn't as straight as I would like, if I am not keeping up with everything I would like to keep up with. 

Sometimes it's o.k not to keep up.  As long as you don't give up.

The Disability Diaries (The Life of J1) : Dark Days - The Big Day : Marathon 2006

Final part in a series of 'Dark Days' posts for Disability Diaries Feature. 

View parts one, two, three.

Beating depression is a highly personal thing.  Unless your mind, your brain, your thoughts want to banish it there is nothing anyone else can do, or say to make any difference.  If you are lucky enough to dispatch it out into the great unknown, that does not mean that it is going to stay floating out in space leaving you in peace for the rest of your days. 

For me, having suffered with depression for a short period in my life - in reaction to discovering my baby boy had suffered brain damage, with the consequence being he is afflicted with the condition Cerebral Palsy - I feel relatively safe that I can keep depression at bay.  I think it would take something pretty huge and grandscale, like what happened to J1 to take me back to that stage.

But I am mindful.  I was obviously susceptible to a degree, otherwise I would have made it through that period without anti-depressants.  To that end I respect, more than ever, the power of the mind and the need to keep it healthy, as much as the need to stay physically fit in order to be able to care for J1.

I was helped out of my personal 'black hole' with the help of science, but also with the suggestion of some good old fashioned 'Health and Fitness'.  From this suggestion I fell in love with running for the first time and decided that I needed to face a challenge.  A real challenge that could try and give me some tiny, small insight into what sort of strength J1 would need to have on a day to day basis.

I applied for a Gold Bond place with a charity to run the London Marathon 2006 and was successful.  After months of training, that in my opinion now should have been much more dedicated, we found ourselves at that wonderful weekend in April.  The roads of London were closed off.  The Mall was adorned with Union Jack flags.  Hotels were booked up with crazy Marathon wannabes.

We decided to make a family weekend of it.  My parents booked us a family room at a hotel for three nights and on the Friday morning, packed like loaded donkeys we took J1 on his first train journey to London.  It was exciting from the start.  We had a packed weekend, starting with going to the Expo to register at the Excel centre. 

It was wonderful.  A world of running and adrenaline surrounded me as I went from one stall to another, ate pasta and picked up all of my equipment needed for The Big Day.  A chip for my shoe.  A running number.  A bag for all of my personal belongings with '2006 London Marathon' emblazoned on it. 

On Saturday we were invited to a Pasta Party with the charity.  It was a fantastic boost as I got to meet other runners and hear their own personal stories of what had brought them to this point.  J1 got an amazing reception and many attendees said meeting him reminded them even more it had been worth all the effort of training.  It was a beautiful afternoon so we took J1 for his first ever visit to Hyde Park and enjoyed the City of London.

Out of everything, the thing I was most worried about was making my way to the starting point for the Marathon.  I have zero sense of direction.  I needn't have worried.  As I left the hotel I found myself constantly surrounded by other running attired people and at that time of the morning on a Sunday very few others.  The tubes were opened freely for travel by runners as part of the Marathon and there was a wonderful, excited buzz on the journey. 

Once off of the tube there was a fair walk to the start.  It was a unique sight seeing all the different running vests bobbing along.  By some miracle, both colleagues who I knew were also running I bumped into on the walk and it was nice to see a familiar face.  It helped take some of the pre-start anxiety away. 

I decided to be sensible and use the bathrooms before I joined the masses to get through the start gate.  That is quite a feat in itself.  There are plenty of toilets, but the queues for them are massive.  When I see the overhead shot on the TV now it always makes me smile.  Again, everyone just found it an opportunity to chat to others.  By the time I got through that queue the bulk of people had made their way through the start, so I didn't have to wait long before the big starting arch was in my vision.

With a lurge in my stomach, I checked I had everything where I needed it.  Felt that the chip on my trainer was secure for the millionth time.  Started, stopped and cleared my own stop watch and gamely set off on my Marathon Quest 2006.

It was still super busy at the start so I couldn't get running until about a mile in, and the excitement of it all; the crowds rows and rows deep full of cheer and support; the television cameras; the bunting and advertising meant I was at Cutty Sark before I realised it.  The next marker was Tower Bridge.  Half way.  They register your time here on your chip so all I could hear was 'beep, beep, beep, beep' of the runners times being captured, a memory stored forever.  My next marker was the Charity Cheering point at mile 18.  I was starting to feel it by the time I reached this point and was glad to see my family and J1, wearing his 'Run Mummy Run' T.Shirt. 

I took the opportunity to change my shirt and pick up extra sweets here.  It had rained non stop from the start and I was saturated and chilly.  I don't know if the stop was the trigger to hitting my wall, but at mile 19 I walloped into it with force.  The next four miles were bleak.  It is a pretty dull part of the race with scarce crowd support (it might have been due to the torrential rain which had by now set in of course). I was back to be absolutely soaked to the skin. I was sick of my sweets and Kendal Mint cake.  I had had enough and wanted to give up.  In the darkness of one of the tunnels I stopped.  I wanted to sit down and never run another step again.  I wanted to get a lift to the end. 

It was here I realised the importance of having a strong mind when doing a distance like the Marathon.  I had ignored this element of it and now I was suffering.  I had to go back to my key thoughts of 'I have the ability to do this run or walk, my child does not.' 

I plopped a tear as I realised that I had no clue where I was.  No phone signal to get some moral support and the only thing I could do was carry on.  After this low the rain eased up a little.  Then I saw it, the magical sign for 23 miles.  My final marker before the end.  I had trained my mind to repeat the following mantra on long runs - 'Only three short miles to go.'  As I crept out onto Embankment the support from the crowd lifted again to the heights it had been at the start.  I decided to start jogging again.

Three miles, at 23 miles is not short.  But as the two mile marker came into view I couldn't help feeling a buzz.  I was looking forward to running up the Mall to the Marathon music and to meeting my family at the end.  Just as I was coming into the Mall I heard my name being screamed.  As I looked I saw my family had managed to get to the front. They had lifted J1 out of the warmth and dry of his buggy and was waving his arms around.  He was in hysterics  and loving it and this pushed me to sprint the final 'point two' miles. 

Going over the finish line was immense.  I donned my medal and spotted a photographer and thought 'I have to have this picture'.  Lovely volunteers were wrapping me in foil and giving me drinks and asking how I felt at completing the Marathon?  I didn't know.  I felt exhausted and elated but it hadn't sunk in that I had actually completed that challenge I set myself the October before. 

It didn't sink in for a while either.  Everyone else who had supported me were more excited than I was.  It felt great to get my photos from the race arrive, and to see my name in the list of finishers in the newspaper.  My work did a follow up article about how I did.  Nowadays it is something I look back and think wow, what an amazing experience - how did I do that?

After the Marathon I came off of the anti-depressants.  I went back to my proper work hours and our life had truly started to have routine, that included all the world of disability and we were coping.  As I say, the sadness of it doesn't go away completely.  But I had made my way through the grieving process and had finally got to acceptance.  That had taken longer than 26.2miles and had been far tougher than the Marathon.

 

The Disability Diaries (The Life of J1) : Dark Days - Getting Lighter!

Part three in a series of 'Dark Days' posts in the 'Disability Diaries' Feature.

For part one click here.  For part two click here.

At the end of the last instalment of Dark Days, I had got to a point where I was starting to cope with day to day life.  I still had bad days, plenty of them.  But with the help of the anti-depressants, getting back to work and a change to a more healthier lifestyle I found I was beginning to accept and acknowledge that life for J1 and I was going to be very different from what I had thought it would be.

During my move to a 'healthier lifestyle' I had set my sights on undertaking a Charity 'Challenge'.  I was investigating the possibility of signing up to trek the Inca Trail in Peru, with the aim of raising about £1800.  A good friend also wanted to do it and the first step, before parting with registration money, would be starting to get fit.

Due to financial constraints I decided to get fit I had to start running.  This was the source of many wry smiles from friends and family, for the main reason that I had always been rather vocal about being anti-running.  I did what I always do when starting something new; purchased some reading literature on it. I bought my first of many Running Magazines and I enjoyed reading it.  I gave me a lot of inspiration.

The most useful article I read was Top Things To Remember with Running.  The key point that stuck with me, and still does when I run today : The first ten minutes are the hardest.  I really clung onto this little pointer on those first few tentative runs.  I stuck to a 'complete beginners' guide, which encouraged building up slowly.  I would run for two minutes and walk for one.  Soon I found I was comfortable enough to run for four minutes and then six and then eight etc.

It was after a Saturday morning jog that I came home to find my mail on the door mat.  On a high from the exercise, I opened a large envelope from the charity I was hoping to do the trek for.  It was a large advertisement for one of their other 'challenges' and it made me smile immediately : The London Marathon 2006.  I knew instantly this was the 'challenge' for me.  I completed the registration form, found my chequebook and walked the application to the post box.

I didn't tell anyone but the friend that had shown an interest in doing the Peru trip.  He was happy that I had found something that had inspired me, and insisted that he still wanted to register for the Inca Trail.  I found some literature on Marathon training programmes and started to train against that.  I would not hear for sure if I had been allocated a place for the Marathon with the Charity until at least October so in the mean time I continued to build on my running and started to brainstorm fundraising ideas so that I was prepared.

I got the good news that I was going to be a London Marathon participant and euphoric told everyone.  I think my parents were happier that I would be staying in the UK than disappearing to Peru.  I had found my mum slowly starting to drop tid-bits of information in like 'Rather large spiders in Peru'.  Although I wouldn't be going abroad I still had to rely heavily on my parents for support for all the training hours I was going to need to put in and for the fundraising target I needed to hit. 

As with everything new all training and motivation started with gusto, but as the dark, cold nights started to draw in, going out for runs became less appealing.  I was also going out more socially, as I was feeling much stronger.  Although this was good in one way, it meant that I was drinking more, which was not conducive to focused Marathon training.  Long runs were missed due to hangovers. Evening runs were abandoned in favour of spending the extra time getting ready to go out.  Or I felt I couldn't ask my parents to have J1 as they had already looked after him so I could go out. 

Then two things happened that made me realise the importance and scale of what I was doing.  I had registered for my first run in the January.  It was a 10 mile race.  I wanted to get used to the etiquette of racing and thought it would be a good starting distance.  The race came around much quicker than I expected and suddenly I was faced with the fear that I was going to be participating in a race that I was just not ready for.  That filled me with dread.  What if I just couldn't finish and then was lost?  What if I came last?  Not only last, but so long behind everyone else that the organisers had packed up and gone home? 

At the same time the University where I was working ran a feature on a both myself and another member of staff running the Marathon in the monthly magazine.  It was a lovely piece and displayed a beautiful photograph of J1.  When this was published I noticed the donations on my 'Just Giving' page went up dramatically and small and large sums of money were being pledged by University staff, most of them I had never met, all with kind and supportive messages.  It came screaming home that what I had signed up to do was real.  It wasn't something I could just decide not to do.  I had committed to it and I needed to pull my finger out and get serious. 

Along with the Just Giving page I also did a few different fundraisers; the main one being 'Party in the Pub' - a childrens party for adults.  This entailed a 'crisp and sweet only' buffet (big hit); giant games (also a big hit) and bouncy castle (biggest hit!).  We held a raffle and did various other 'pay and play' games and this raised a huge chunk of my target.  The support was overwhelming, everyone believed that I could do this and it was time I started to think that way as well.

I am glad to say that I did complete the 10 mile race.  I also found that I loved the whole atmosphere of the event.  Other runners were so friendly, and immediately interested in J1's story and the reason I was undertaking the Marathon.  And it was the first time I really felt like 'A Runner' - and that was a label I liked.

After that I made a lot of effort to enter races, in a variety of distances as these were great motivation for me to get out training.  Looking back now with the benefit of hindsight, I was out training and getting races under my belt but I only within my comfort zone.  I only entered one half marathon and this really wasn't adequate.  My longest run was about 16 miles, not really long enough or frequently enough and in the end I just ran out of time. 

Whilst life almost became all about the Marathon for six months we were also making a lot of progress with J1 too.  We now had the official diagnosis and this made getting the help he needed easier.  I still do not know how those parents that care for children who remain undiagnosed cope. Along with appointments about equipment (always was and I fear always will be the toughest nut to crack), physiotherapy and speech and language therapy we also got access to a weekly hydro-pool session.  This session meant we met other parents of children with disabilities and special needs - a huge support. 

Soon April had arrived.  I was feeling mentally and physically much better than I had for a year.  I was proud that I had reached race weekend without injury and was looking forward to taking J1 to London for the first time.  I was elated that I had not only reached but exceeded my fundraising target.  I was ready to face my physical challenge of a lifetime, but never forgetting the lifetime of challenge that J1 was facing.

The Disability Diaries (The Life of J1) : Dark Days - The Beginning of a Journey

Part two in a series of 'Dark Days' posts in the 'Disability Diaries' Feature.

I have had friends, who have been struggling with how they feel, ask me how the anti-depressants actually helped me.  The only way I can describe how they helped me on the road to recovery is to explain; I was able to deal with more.  Rather than the smallest thing seeming like a big deal, or a mountain to climb, they became just what they were again; a small thing. 

This in turn allowed my mind to start dealing with the other issues that it had to process.  Over the course of 15 months the days spent crying became less frequent, and the old 'fighting' spirit started to return, slowly.  It was not an overnight cure, the lack of sleep did not assist matters.  However, days where we had negative news on J1's diagnosis - which could have knocked me out K-O style - instead meant I cried, had a bad day and was able to move on.

In short, I started to learn to cope.

My doctor had not just prescribed anti-depressants to try and combat my dark days, he also suggested that I needed a healthier diet and some form of exercise as a 'natural' remedy to help lift me up.  The diet change was relatively simple.  Pre-baby I had always maintained a reasonable diet (my weight does not automatically stay down).  Also at one point I had spent a long period being an avid gym attendee.

Although I had good intentions with the exercise I struggled to find the motivation to do something.  The only real 'exercise' I enjoyed was going to the gym and at the time I was not in a financial position to join one.  Work had allowed me to reduce my hours, but of course with that came a salary reduction.  As I worked within the Students' Union at the University I was surrounded by a lot of sport-friendly/financially restrained people.  One person suggested that I might like to take up running.  It was free, would give me a good dose of happy hormones and some fresh air.  They even offered to work out a training plan for me if I so desired!  I nearly fell off of my chair laughing.  After thanking them for the offer, I explained that I faked a sick note for every 'cross country' session at school and had never even run on the treadmill at the gym.  Running was not a sport for me.

Although I was starting to feel better I still did not feel strong enough to take up offers of social occasions with friends.  I wasn't ready to run the risk of being required to openly discuss J1's condition, or even worse have to deal with their sympathy.  Additionally I found, after an 'attempt' at trying to tell certain people, they got very upset.  I felt they were expecting me to be strong enough to help them deal with their grief.  I didn't have that sort of strength so went back to my withdrawn method.  At work, people were appropriately avoiding asking anything too personal.  They stuck to 'How's J1 doing, ok?' allowing me to answer with a simple 'Yes, thank you for asking' - which was about as much as I could cope with.  I was thankful for the polite and reserved trait of the English.  

It was on another Saturday evening at home, researching a charity website, that I came across the 'How You Can Help?' section.  The site listed different 'Adventures' that you could sign up to, such as; Walking the Great Wall of China; Trek Kilimanjaro; Cycle to Paris.  One caught my eye in particular 'Trek the Inca Trail - Peru'.  It looked just, stunning.

I printed off the details and slept on the idea.  When I got up on Sunday the thought of doing something to raise money for charity, charities that were giving us help and support, invigorated me.  I felt a bounce in my step that I had wondered would ever return.  I had never been very adventurous in choosing holiday destinations, and to be honest it did scare me somewhat.  I decided to call a friend who was very well travelled to glean their opinion on the choice of adventure.

I felt nervous approaching someone about something that I wanted to do.  I was used to just doing exactly what I chose to.  However, I quickly realised that if I was going to do something, as big as what I was setting my sights on, then I was going to need support.  I made the call, and my excitement must have been infectious because two hours later I received a message saying - 'Not only do I think it will be good for you, I am going to do it with you!'.

I was even more worried about suggesting the idea to my parents.  I was concerned that they would think it was a step too far, considering I had only just started to cope with day to day life.  I was not going to be able to do this without their full consent however.  I was going to need lots of babysitting agreement so that I could get fit; go away for practise treks; organise the fund-raising side of things and of course go on the trek itself.

I did approach them however.  Although I could see uncertainty with a touch of 'We will say yes but I can't see her going through with it' in their eyes, to say 'yes' I think they must have see a twinkle in mine that had been missing for sometime.  My mum suggested before I parted with any money registering, I should take a month or two working on getting fit to see if I could - in reality - fit all the training in that would be required.

I agreed.  I had read that I would cope better with the altitude issues that would present themselves, if I had a good lung capacity.  At the time I could have taken a decent wager that it was currently pretty poor.  I looked up what would be the best way to improve it and unsurprisingly the suggestion was; Running.  It was time to go back cap in hand to the very kind person that had offered to help me with this very subject.

Little did I know that running was about to become a very real and very important part of my life.  How taking on more would in fact help me cope better and how much it would improve my state of mind.

The Disability Diaries (The Life of J1) : Dark Days - The Discovery

The first post in a series of 'Dark Days' for the 'Disability Diaries' Feature

J1 was discharged from hospital and the Special Care Unit, at just over three weeks old.  This was such a relief, it was all positive steps in the right direction.  I had been lucky in one respect, because we had been sent out to a hospital quite a distance from our home, I was allowed to stay on the post-natal ward for two weeks so I could be with J1 within minutes.  Once we were transferred back to our local hospital, I had to commute daily which was very stressful. 

All the time I was not sitting by the incubator, which was only when I was sleeping, showering, eating or travelling, I was like a cat on hot coals, pining to be there.  I was still in a great deal of discomfort from my cesarean and although people kept telling me that I also needed to rest, I would be up at 6.00am so that I could get to the hospital to see my little miracle.  The 20 minute journey to the hospital which pre-J1 seemed like a short commute, seemed to take a life time.  Every bit of traffic seemed like an obstacle personally placed to stop me getting to my newborn.  Leaving at night was complete torture. 

However, when we were finally released the whole family breathed a sigh of relief.  We could now start our life as a 'normal' mother and baby.  A few days after he was home we had the standard midwife check up.  J1 was doing well, I however had broken out in a rather painful rash around my midriff.  After taking one look at it she declared "Oh dear, it's Shingles."

The Midwife suggested that it was probably a physical reaction to the shock of what had gone on over the last month.  I was quite surprised by this idea, as far as I was concerned I had just taken everything in my stride, and why had it happened now, when we were home and the pressure was off?  She said it was a common occurrence, that your brain can only take so much stress before it bubbles over and a physical reaction is required to 'release' it so to speak.

I probably should have been more aware of this when 'The Diagnosis' came.  I was doing exactly the same thing, thinking I was just taking everything in my stride.  The shocking fact that I had a son with a condition called Cerebral Palsy, all the extra hospital visits and appointments that came with this news, the usual stress of being a first time, single mother with a young baby and trying to work to provide a home and nice life. 

I ignored the initial signs that I was not dealing with everything that was being thrown into my path of life.  The signs such as, only going out to work, not taking friends calls or offers of a social hour out.  The days that I would wake up from my sleep sobbing, and then shed big, hot, ploppy tears for the next 12 hours of the day.  I stopped caring about my appearance, something I had always made a big effort with, particularly when it came to work.  I would go into my office each day, but my head wouldn't be there, I would just want to be at home, curled up with my baby on my sofa sleeping.

I also picked up every bug and virus on the radar.  I tried to keep going, until I developed tonsillitis so badly it gave me a temperature of over 100.  This knocked me off of my feet for days, and combined with feeling low to start with I slipped into a deep and dark pit.  My parents had to take J1 as we did not want him to contract it.  I laid on my sofa for three days, hardly moving, without the tv or radio on, not eating and wondered if I would ever get up. 

I laid and wondered if I had the strength to get up and keep going.  I questioned if I was capable of looking after this precious and special little boy.  If I could cope with what the world was going to place on our lap.  Buried deep in fear of the unknown and feeling far from well those are the worst three days I have ever lived through. 

Once the tonsillitis wore off and I had to return to work, I went as the shell of the person that I had been.  I remember walking in on the first day back, kind of dazed and straight to my bosses office.  They took one look at me and said "Your clothes don't match?  What's going on?".  When we discovered I couldn't really string a sentence together without tears, she immediately gave me some time off with the strict instructions to go and talk to my doctor.  She had been wanting to do this for a while but didn't want to upset me further by approaching me about it.

It was difficult in the doctors.  I tried to go in to say I was run down, but he could see it was more than that.  Much sobbing of 'I can't cope' (just saying those words was enlightening) he prescribed some anti-depressants, along with a healthy diet and some exercise.  As my Mother had come along with me, he was satisfied that J1 was being safely cared by me and my family.

Leaving the Doctors I was in two minds about the anti-depressants.  I really did not want to have to take them, there was such a stigma attached, would they cause unwanted side effects?  Did I really want to be taking them at 26 years old?  Would it not lead to a longer slippery slope?  My Mother made a two good points, I could research the ones I had been prescribed, until I was happy.  If I then made the decision that I was going to take them no one else even needed to know, I could just outwardly make the diet and exercise change.

Just by taking the steps to start to try and help myself, I immediately felt better.  I had regained a small amount of control.  I had been signed off of work so I had a couple of weeks to slowly start to make some lifestyle changes, and the important thing was that I wanted to.  I did research the anti-depressants and felt satisfied after further discussion with the doctor, that I would probably only need them for the short term.  The Doctor noted that I wasn't a seemingly 'depressed' person in general.  I had 'reactive depression' which given the circumstances, was not unsurprising.

Things did not change overnight, of course they didn't.  But never since have I had three days as dark as those I experienced at the beginning.  I started taking my tablets, I made more effort with my diet and I started to think about what forms of exercise I should undertake.  It was good to have something like diet and exercise to focus on.

My journey to recovery, acceptance and getting our happy life back had begun.

The Disability Diaries - Sneaky Sneaky...

Everyone has down days.  I have spoken about this before in a post entitled 'The Good, The Bad and The Ugly'.  Everyone is entitled to them and it is perfectly normal to have them.  We are not all Mary Poppins 'Height - Practically Perfect in Every Way'.  We do not live in a movie or a TV series.  We have real lives, with real issues and real emotions and sometimes, no matter how hard we try, and how much we busy ourselves to avoid them, sometimes, just sometimes, they get out. 

Since I had J1 and our lives surrounding the words 'disabilities', 'special needs', 'equipment' began I have to admit those 'down' days became much more frequent to me than they ever were before.  In fact, at one point not long after J1's diagnosis I was told I had 'reactive depression'.  And I had to admit I did.  I took heart that because it was a condition that had arisen due to a rather large shock that time would heal and it would drift away.  And it did.

And I am pleased to say that since that wretched year (it took about a year to bugger off and my brain to process all that had happened and start to cope again) I have managed to avoid any bouts of it since so I am happy that it was exactly what they said it was; reactive. 

What I have now I believe are perfectly normal 'down days' and after I have had them (and I again, am pleased to say that they do generally only last for one day) I look at them and think 'Hmmm cycle related?  Tiredness? Exhaustion?' Usually it's a combination of all 3 and my brain must think 'Er no, not today love, I need a day to wallow'.  But the important thing is I can pick it up, look at it, assess that it was a one off and file it away in the 'Down Days' lever arch with no worry.

I haven't had too many of late I am thrilled to say.  Probably because things have been so out of kilter with the Hubby's operation and such that I just plain haven't had the time and maybe that is why I just did not see the last one coming!  It caught me so off-guard it nearly knocked me into the next century because it followed our amazing day we'd had for J1's birthday.

In fairness, it was feeling under the weather, yet again, that was the first blow.  We have been blighted, like most households seem to have with this darn headcold that 'just won't quit' for over three weeks now.  And now it's delights have channelled into the sinuses, which led me to have my first ever migraine.  Dear Lord!  It was the worst pain I have felt bar child-birth and a mere mortal Ibruprofen did not touch the sides.  J2 looked at me with fear and trepidation as I cried in pain at a mere hair on my head moving.  Despite the Hubby's medical issues right now, he had to step in with the childcare, putting me in a darkened room with some codine and taking J2 on a jaunt on the train leaving me in silence to try and sleep it off.

But once I was down I was down, I could tell and I knew it was going to be a long and tearful day.  I cried at the tv, I cried at the happy birthday pictures from the day before, I cried at all the equipment in J1's room, I cried at the fact that although I love our house it just isn't big enough, I cried at all the tidying up I didn't feel up to doing, I cried at hearing sad news that my friends wife had finally been moved into a hospice, I cried when J2 wouldn't get his pyjama's on.  I maudled.  I felt sorry for my self.  I felt guilty for the struggles J1 endures everyday that I can't change.

I went to bed.

Sneaky Sneaky it sneaked up on me this time but I'll be ready next time and the next day I woke up anew and counted the blessing that I have in my life and filed that day away.