Waves, books and a question of destiny

Didn't write yesterday. Couldn't write yesterday. Tiredness, you see + exactly a month from the funeral = bad day. Izzy had been out with her grandparents the night before to see a horse show at the Arènes in Béziers and wasn't tucked up in bed till after bloody midnight (Izzy not good with lack of sleep either so I try and keep her to a good sleep routine which is not easy in summer and when you share your daughter with a family from a Mediterranean culture), so although I thought she'd sleep in, she woke me at 7.30am. Several minor acts of defiance later, an angry outburst from mummy and I was back in bed. Poor Izzy. I really do try and deal with her but right now it's too much. I'll write about Izzy soon.

We'd invited William's Godmother, Marie, her partner and his children (5 and 12) for lunch. Our first foray in I don't know how long to 'act social', starting with someone who is a very close friend to both of us and has an extremely naturally caring nature. As I'm not shopping, we have no real food in the house, so Olivier took Izzy shopping with him and I stayed in bed reading and crying and regretting having invited friends over as I was in such a state.

But by the time Marie et al arrived around 1pm and Olivier came up to see me (I love him so much), I felt like I needed the comfort I knew I'd get from Marie so I asked him to send her up to see me if she wanted to. We had such a lovely chat, for about an hour, and she used such a good analogy that I wanted to try and describe it here.

Using her hand she said to me, "Nicole, right now you are doing this" and made deep up and down wave movements with her hand (like when you put your hand out of the car window) "and you need to get to a place where you are doing this" - then she did very shallow wave movements with her hand. I like that. A simplification of emotions in a gest and a summary of now with a target of hope for the future.

Marie helped give me the force to finally get myself up, showered and dressed. I can't say lunch was particularly jovial, but we ate. And I was there at the table. So in one day from the very low part of a deep wave, I made an advance and climbed somewhat up the wave to participate in a 'normal social affair'. But it was tiring and when they left mid-afternoon, and then my mum came to take Izzy for the night (thanks mummy), I went back to my book and read...

Now, since I know I should be trying to add 'normal' things back into my routine and not dwell all the time on myself and my sadness (easier said than done) - in order to find our 'new normal' as all the advice and research tells me - I thought I would duck away from William and maybe tell you about the books I read.

A voracious reader (as one writes in one's CV), I haven't properly read a book since William was born and had only just got back to reading before he was born after having Izzy. So I have a few stocked up and ready. It should be noted, however, that I do read a newspaper every day and those that know me will now be thinking, "And boy does SHE read a newspaper". I'm a bit of a cover to cover girl. A few minutes here and there in the day and a bit when I go to bed. Always too sleepy to start a book.

The first book I read recently was The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo - I had tried several times to read it before but fell asleep after the first few pages every time so gave up. This time I devoured it in a few days. As I wait for no 2 to arrive (thank you Wendy for ordering it for me while I was away with no wifi) I am now reading Kate Morton's third book, Distant Hours.

Before I tell you about this book, I should tell you about her first book. Although an Australian author, only her first book has any Australian references - the House at Riverton. A historical novel set in the past and in modern times, in Australia and in England, untangling the knots of a complex and intriguing family story through time. I loved it. I think it won Richard and Judy's book of the something award. Her next book was The Forgotten Garden - another historical novel with a family mystery at its heart. And Distant Hours, although nearly 700 pages long, is just as compelling as the first two and with the same theme. With most books, you can predict the links and 'surprises' (a pander to the reader to raise the ego, and allow the gullible to feel clever), but I have to admit to being hit with a 'I didn't see that coming' moment in this book. Rare as rocking horse's poo (to use a quote a friend told me recently) moments like that. Or maybe I've just slipped from gullible to gaga in my current feeble mental state.

But anyway, I read and read and read yesterday and then Olivier and I had some 'us' time in front of a dvd 'MR73' (turned out to be the name of a gun - which gives you an idea of the film's genre). Where I don't want to watch anything violent right now, Olivier does. Where I can't handle seeing hurt and pain, he wants to know that there's worse out there. We grieve differently, as often men and women do. At the end of the film there was the most realistic scene of a woman giving birth that I have ever seen (including the real life ones I watched throughout both my pregnancies on one of those random cable channels). Had me in absolute floods as I remembered so clearly William's wonderful arrival into our lives.

So now I come back to my dicussion with Marie on my bed yesterday. William arrived after my waters broke seven weeks early, so at 33 weeks. He was finally born two days later after a natural birth, with no epidural (he arrived too quickly - from first twinge to birth only four hours - although I was asking for it already!). He weighed 2.2kg (about 4.5lb) and was immediately put in an incubator and had help with his breathing and temperature control. I learnt what each of those machines did by heart and studied each change, each advance assiduously as I first breast fed him then, when he weakened slightly, pumped to bottle feed him (it  eventually took seven weeks of pumping and trying to get him to latch on again before he was back on the breast). We stayed in hospital for three long weeks, which included a spell of jaundice, after which time he was finally strong enough to leave. What joy!

Then, last summer, one Saturday when Izzy was at her dad's for the weekend, William (then 18 months) and I spent the afternoon by the pool. I later took William upstairs, he was rather subdued, so I put him on his changing mat and bumbled around, before changing him and putting him in his cot. I was getting ready to go out - we'd actually organised a babysitter for the first time - when I heard strange noises and immediately rushed in to his bedroom. He was making weird rasping noises - I rushed to get Olivier out of the shower shouting that something was wrong. When we both ran back to William it was clear he was having a fit.

We didn't think of anything except getting him to 'urgences' (casualty) - we left the house unlocked and got in the car and drove at top speed to the hospital in Béziers which took about 10 minutes but felt like an age with his stiff, trembling body in my arms, eyes rolling, foamy spittle forming at the corners of his mouth, fists curled up into little balls. Truly terrifying.  At casualty we were immediately prioritised and before we knew it we had many doctors working on him, trying to stop the fitting. It took one and a half hours. At that time, it was the scariest one and a half hours of my life, but they finally managed to get enough drugs into him to calm his tremors. Then he, I and two doctors were police escorted in an ambulance to the Montpellier paedeatrics hospital. I have to say here that the French medical system and its staff, doctors, nurses and secretaries alike have been fantastic. After a very scary spell in hospital, William was finally released and we tried to start all over again, albeit with a long list of follow-up appointments (including an MRI - which was all fine, thank God).

Marie and I spoke about William's lack of a sense of fear or danger. What with the odd scrape and stitches, surgical glue etc, we all joked (eventually) about his season ticket to casualty. How sick that seems now.

I said to Marie that a generation or so ago, William would not have survived at birth. He would certainly not have survived his fit (btw after much research, the only link or reason the doctors can give for this is that he had his first MMR jab two days before - yesterday I threw away his second that we'd be holding on to give him till the very last minute as it scared us so much - it was due this week).

So was he a 'child on loan' (I've read stories of strange old women, pointing bony fingers and saying this to mums about their kids)? Did we battle with destiny or whatever from the day he was born, one metaphorical arm each, tugging away and with us winning twice before finally losing? Does this abstract concept - theological, spiritual or whatever - help me? Well, yes, a bit. I suppose it's a, can I even say this?, positive way of looking at something still too terrible to digest.