The sky’s the limit…

I make no apologies but I am going to be *that mother* – you know the one that clogs up FB (& therefore anyone else who reads her posts, unless you have set me to silent or similar!) with proud, perfect first born posts & rambles to anyone who will listen how talented/amazing/Einstein’s veritable protege etc her child(ren) is/are.

Bare with me on this one though ‘cos I really do think I deserve (well not really me as such but I’ll get on to that bit in a minute!) to have at least 5 minutes of proud glory hunting on H’s behalf.

There are so many reasons I can wax lyrical about H’s virtues: the love and support he gives to all his siblings, (and us of course) the practical care he has voluntarily been trained in to provide for Minx so he can give medications via her gastrostomy, set up her pump feeds (and now G’s too) and aid and assist with various other aspects of personal care; his verve for life, his 100% commitment to anything he puts his mind too, his enthusiasm to embrace every day no matter what it throws at him, volunteering for the local Young Carers; you get the picture: I could go on ad nauseum.

However, the last 2 weeks give me even more reason than normal to shout from the rooftops: H started his private pilots flight training on Monday 23rd July 2018.

On Thursday 26th July 2018 he did his very first air-flight – SOLO!!! Given that he’s only ever had a trial lesson aged 13 prior to this, I think that’s pretty bloody impressive!!! So shout it from the roof tops I will 😊

Just call me Maverick! No first day nerves – Well H didn’t but I did!

From a very early age, H demonstrated a love for all things plane related.

Not necessarily surprising given his Dad’s job (airline pilot for those who may not know) and watching him hero-worship his Daddy flying his little die-cast planes through the sky at death-defying angles, accompanied by lots of engine nnnnnneeeeewwwwaaaahhh type noises (apologies for very poor sound description!) was very sweet.

By aged 3 he could identify most aircraft in the sky or at an airport with spectacular accuracy and had a vast collection of little plastic aircraft models on display stands from various different fleets. Very fragile, a nightmare to dust around and definitely not compatible with younger siblings clumsy hands!

He could fly the simulator on our home computer and his idea of a top day out was sitting in Jersey Aero Club watching planes coming in and out of the Island for hours at a time.

Stealing Daddy’s safety tabard for doing aircraft walk round!
Captain Beaton & First Officer La-La at the helm

Since the age of 4, he’s talked about being a pilot. Initially we responded with a laugh; how many of us said things when we were pint-sized about future occupations and how many of us actually do those particular jobs? As far as I can tell the world isn’t overrun with spacemen, nurses, ice-cream taste testers et al (Incidentally Mr DNTW’s wanted to be a dustbin lorry driver or the night porter on a sleeper train!) Over the years however, H’s convictions only grew stronger and 3 or 4 years ago, recognising that he was serious, we began scrabbling down the back of the sofa for the purported thousands that Brits are supposed to have scattered in loose change (I suspect this is collectively as I only found about 2p, a chewed piece of gum no doubt stashed by one of the offspring for safe-keeping 🤮 and a partially eaten nerf bullet)

The sofa search having proved fruitless, I went to investigate the mystical money tree that lives at the bottom of the garden. Alas, there’s a straggly looking bush and a peeling- paint-bit of fence but nowt else.

We started looking at flight schools more closely and after I had scraped my jaw off the floor cognisant of the fact that it’s very unlikely we have a spare £100,000 + just waiting to be spent, H and hubby had more serious discussions and investigations as to how H could realise his end goal of becoming an airline pilot.

The plan is for H to train just like his Dad did: get a job in the real world to pay for exams, flight training, hour building etc over the next 2-3 years. It’s not the easiest route but it’s a considerable saving on dedicated flight schools and his sense of achievement ultimately will be enormous.

H has also been extremely fortunate that due to the generosity of grandparents he’s able to do a ‘crash course’ (definitely not a good choice of words but can’t think of a better one!) and do his private licence over a month this summer. He’s taken 8 of the 9 ground school exams, passing a number with 100%.

Given that between revising for a-level exams he read through the 9 tomes of aviation law, navigation, radios, meteorology etc for ‘fun’ and relaxation, he’s already showing dedication and determination beyond his tender years. (NB, have made a note to talk to him about his understanding of the word fun!)

Already in the face of adversity, H has had to overcome some hard times. Last September when undergoing his very important application for a Class 1 Aviation medical, he very unexpectedly hit a huge brick wall: despite being merely 17, seemingly fit as the proverbial butcher’s dog – he cycles regularly, goes walking for fun(!) and hikes in the Dales, tests showed an issue with his heart.

Initially he believed it was an error on the machines part (youthful exuberance) but further investigations revealed a progressive heart condition. He was devastated as were we.

No amount of consoling that at least this had been detected early could reassure him. For H, it potentially meant the end of his dreams in pursuing a career in aviation

As a mother, all I could think was how, why and what happens now?? Your heart is a *fairly* important bit of kit….

The cardiologist we consulted was excellent and there followed a round of extensive medical testing to find out how serious things were (are). Sleepless nights for me at least whilst we waited for results.

The good news is that whilst the condition is progressive in nature, he should have years ahead of him, symptom free.

He will be regularly monitored and scanned and eventually medication will control the symptoms. Based on present medical knowledge he will at some point need surgical intervention but we are talking far in the future and with medical knowledge, procedures and equipment evolving at lightning speeds, who can say what the future will bring.

Nonetheless, H was rejected for a Class 1 medical and caveats issued alongside this meant he couldn’t even pursue a private pilots licence. H has always been a positive person but this knocked the stuffing out of him.

After taking time to let the news sink in, we decided not to take this as a fait acclompi. H and Mr DNTW’s consorted with aviation medical and legal experts.

I’ll spare you the ins & outs but it became apparent that if this hadn’t been H’s initial medical licence application, he could have been issued a licence with restrictions (no flying with anyone over 65 or a fellow pilot with medical restrictions) so effectively, the refusal to issue his licence was penalising him for something that hadn’t happened and was/is unlikely to be an issue for many years to come!

As ‘luck’ would have it, another would be pilot had been declined his medical for a different condition for issues that are unlikely to be problematic potentially ever. He was in the process of pursuing his case at the court of human rights.

The Civil Aviation authority agreed to concede before it got to that level and thus opened the floodgates for others in similar situations. H was advised to appeal the decision and after a nail-biting few months he was issued a licence with restrictions.

He is under no illusions that this does complicate matters a little but if air travel and the airline industry continues to expand as predicted, there will be a shortage of airline pilots in the years ahead. (Brexit of course is an unknown, unquantifiable potential source of concern – & not just to the Government! 😏)

So H has made the decision to pursue a flying career and if all goes as it should will have achieved his private pilots licence in the next 2 weeks!! Eek.

As I type, H is preparing for his last exam, another day of navigational flight planning and cross country flying. He’s earned his first set of ‘stripes’ – epaulettes – and is proving that he’s a force to be reckoned with!

First ‘stripes’ … a while to go yet before the airline version First Officer, then Captain someday?

I have no doubts that H will achieve his goals professionally and personally in the years to come because of his hard work, determination & drive to always do his best. Now if only that could also be applied to ironing his uniform…..❣️

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Tonight Matthew I’m going to be……

An adult!

Strictly speaking I ‘adult’ every day, albeit some days more successfully than others.

Yesterday however, I ‘adulted’ myself to the nines.

So that you can feel comfortable continuing to read and for the avoidance of any misunderstandings, I should reassure you that this post is perfectly respectable and I won’t be revealing anything x-rated or of a delicate nature. You can all breathe a sigh of relief and resist the notion of poking out your own eye-balls/resorting to mind bleach for fear of dodgy pictures and such like!

I don’t know about you dear reader but the majority of the time I don’t feel old enough, responsible enough or even qualified enough to do the “adulting” parts of life. Certainly not with success and authenticity in any event.

Apparently however, being married having children, dog ownership (he might dispute that as pretty sure Milo thinks he owns me) a mortgage and all the other infinitesimal accoutrements of life plus being over a certain age means I automatically qualify as an adult… and there’s no resignation option (well unless you ‘check out’ entirely but that’s generally speaking a bit drastic)

Over the last year particularly, “adulting” has been a part of my life I’d quite like to have run away from.

Somehow wherever I hide, no matter how precisely I have chosen the deepest, darkest recess or how carefully I stick my fingers in my ears and shout la-la-la, the necessity for “adulting” always has a way of finding me….darn it.

And even before last years ‘annus horribilis’ I must confess that I had very often felt like a player in that game “Hedbandz” rather than a real adult.

For the uninitiated, the game compromises of a plastic head band device with a slot in which you stick a card in which states the object/word/profession and the wearer has to ask a series of questions to try & work out what or who they are.

For added ‘fun’ you can do a timed session so they have to guess in a specific time period or a specific number of questions. Adding alcohol into the equation for the ‘Adulty’ version I’m sure can only enhance the fun 🙄 But never in a million years would any card ever depict me as an adult; in fact I think I’m possibly only marginally up from a lemming….

Anyway, what I mean by my ramblings above is, in theory I suppose I should know I’m an adult but the actuality is very different and frankly I really don’t feel I’m quite mature enough to make life or death (somewhat over dramatic!) decisions on a day to day basis when I can barely decide what to cook for dinner!

So now I’ve long-windedly explained that, I’ll get to why I ‘adulted’ properly yesterday.

For those of you who have followed my blog for a while or who know me in the ‘real world’ you are probably familiar with my involvement in SWAN UK.

SWAN stands for syndromes without a name and it is the only specialist support network in the UK dedicated to families of children and young people affected by a syndrome without a name.

Having 2 children who are classified as SWANS – they are both medically complex and although they have multiple diagnosed difficulties/needs, we don’t have an over-arching diagnosis that draws everything together – getting support from SWAN UK over 5 years ago made a huge difference to myself and the whole family. In fact, if we had not joined SWAN UK (its free!) we would have had no idea where to even begin to think of living when we moved to the UK some 4 years ago.

Mr Def Not The W’s was allocated Leeds as a base when he joined his new airline but we knew nothing about the area, about hospitals, schools, housing and services and so it was to my trusty network of online friends that I turned to to seek advice and guidance in helping us formulate a plan.

Of course SWAN UK’s services go far beyond the things I mention above. You can read more about the vital support they provide here: http://www.undiagnosed.org.uk/

Over the years, the advice, reassurance, sense of belonging and community not to mention the family days out, coffee mornings and get togethers have been a huge source of comfort, support and a wealth of experience for me.

Back in 2013 it became apparent that holding down a job, even working from home as I had done since 2008, in a role that I could fit around my children, was no longer viable.

I eventually found that in order to keep on top of work I was in a seemingly endless cycle of being up very early, going to bed very late and working all the hours in between that weren’t occupied with the needs of the family including weekends. Something had to give. It was *almost* my sanity.

Although I don’t miss the crazy relentlessness of those days and we are fortunate in that we can (just about) manage for me not to work (and are hugely grateful at times to our parents for stepping in when an unexpected bill/costs rears their ugly head) I do miss that feeling of achievement and accomplishment.

So in September 2015 I decided I would like to try and do something useful with my life and if possible, give a little something back.

I recognised that combining this with (at the time) 3 children with extra needs was going to potentially be problematic. (Turns out we now have 4 children with additional needs, although our eldest is almost 18 and would revolt against the use of the word child!)

I decided to volunteer to be a SWAN UK parent representative for North Yorkshire…. if they would have me! And they did.

In fact, this was absolutely perfect because recognising that caring for medically/physically and or cognitively complicated children can mean life doesn’t follow the best, most carefully laid plans, SWAN UK are happy for parent representatives to volunteer as much or as little of our time as we are able to give. They also understand that sometimes we have to drop everything with little to no notice and have always made it clear that the needs/demands of our children, wider family and ourselves are paramount.

Over the years of being a SWAN UK parent representative, I have spoken at a Rare Disease conference about my experience of being a parent of undiagnosed children; I have contacted my MP about being part of an APPG (all party parliamentary group) to discuss and raise awareness of being undiagnosed and the implications that has on families as a whole, not just the affected individual. I have visited Parliament and spoken to a wide variety of professionals about the difficulties of living with the unknown and unexpected as well as assisted in organising days out to celebrate Undiagnosed Children’s Day (last Friday in every April) arranged coffee mornings and fund-raising events.

I don’t want to come across as holier than thou but aside from (hopefully) raising awareness and sign posting SWAN UK, it did make me feel useful and purposeful again.

It gave me an opportunity to step outside the role of parenting my own children’s medical management and hopefully gave a voice to others in a similar situation.

Anyway back to the reason behind the recent adulting: after something of a hiatus in 2017, I attended a professionals meeting at our local hospital.

Having contacted the Harrogate and District Hospital administrative team (via FB messenger no less!) I pretty much threw myself on their mercy. They kindly directed me to the Head of Paediatric Nursing and The Head of Paediatrics and we set up an appointment Gulp.😳

The fact that the head of paediatrics is also my children’s consultant was not lost on me and was more than slightly daunting.

Somehow, seeing me in a different role to G Man or Minx’s Mum felt strangely discombobulating; at least in the run up to the meeting itself and I was plagued with disconcerting dreams that I would somehow disgrace both myself and SWAN UK.

Nonetheless, I asked SWAN HQ to send me some literature and armed with this, my trusty, very bright pink SWAN UK bag, business cards (get me! I’m posh!!) and a lanyard, I put my big girl pants on (erm figuratively you understand, I haven’t gone totally Bridget Jones yet) and my “grown up” clothes on.

Being only 5ft almost 3 inches, adulting clothes usually involve heels for me. Fretting that I didn’t want to look like I was trying too hard or heading out for a slap up meal, I opted for heeled boots, a patterned skirt & top, with a bit of jewellery and a swish of eyeliner & lippy.

On the inside I may have felt about 5 and was quaking like a jelly but externally I *hopefully* projected confidant, knowledgeable and approachable….

Obviously I couldn’t really ask those present at the meeting if I had successfully captured that but my audience were enthusiastic and receptive. They were keen to read and then display the literature I provided and told me that they would be disseminating the information to fellow colleagues, the Paediatric ward, Child Development Centre, Parents Room and Paediatric clinics. I also got agreement to have a stand in the foyer of the hospital to coincide with Undiagnosed Children’s Day in April. So all in all, I think it went well.

I came away feeling positive and uplifted and like a real-life proper grown up for the first time in a very long time. I’m pretty sure I didn’t have my skirt tucked into my knickers at any point or commit any other embarrassing epic social faux pas’s so all in all winner winner… I hope…. 😊

A work in…. progress??

I’ve been truly over-whelmed and grateful for all the messages, emails, texts, visits and all round offers of support in the last few weeks. 

If ever I needed a kick in the backside and a reminder why I am actually privileged beyond all doubt, the last 9 weeks have galvanised that thought process entirely.

In the most utterly dark, dismal and scary places I’ve inhabited over the last few months (both literally and figueratively) there have been sharply crystallised rays of light, a beacon if you want lighting the way and guiding me in the darkness. Cliched? Maybe. True? Certainly, at least for me.

It is well documented that the very worst of times can bring out the very best of people (I refuse entirely to dwell on the paradox that you may also see the utter waste of inhumanity and degradation) and from those that have stepped in at short notice to ferry the kids about, entertain them, help hubby in anyway possible, iron, wash, cook, clean, shop; family, friends, acquaintances newly made (rapidly turning into firm friendships)and friends of old both in the wider world and closer to home in Yorkshire, I am humbled and grateful.

There is so much I want to say about our “bigger picture,” what led me to the depths but for legal reasons I can’t. I’m sorry if that sounds a bit obtuse (I hate those annoying fb posts where people say something really leading, enough to pique your interest and then leave you dangling  – probably because I’m nosy!!) but at this point in time, I do not wish to jeopardise our issues going forward (again, note the optimism; I cannot entertain the thought that things could crumble and leave us wading and wallowing in the 💩again….) Hopefully in due course I will be able to elaborate further and end with “and they all lived happy ever after” type scenario.

For now, and because frankly I’ve been a bit rubbish in the last few weeks at replying to people, I thought I’d try and sum things up a little – I guess this is the blog equivalent of either the (depending on your perspective!!) loved or loathed round-robin Christmas letter.

I think I mentioned a few blog posts ago that I was struggling to answer how I was feeling. I wanted to say what people wanted to hear. I know that with the best of intentions those closest wanted to hear “I’m fine” and see a steely grin of grit and determination. In truth, I was more of a soggy mess and I haven’t dared wear mascara in a very long time (way before my admittance) as even waterproof would have given in to the torrents of tears. 

Fast forward to present day, I am testing out a proper reply to the question of “how are you?” During some points of some days I could honestly answer that question with “I’m fine, good even!” And I wouldn’t be lying. Other days, other moments it would be a more honest answer of “not so good” and you may end up with a wet shoulder if you proffer it for me to cry on.

I haven’t started ‘proper’ therapy in here as my team believe that the best place for that is once I’m home. So for now, I guess the best answer is I’m a work in progress. But an evolving one, striving to move forward and embrace myself imposed motto: if the glass is half empty, there’s always more room for wine! 

Of course I’ve barely had a drop since I started on this road! Obviously you can’t on the ward but even on the occasions I’ve been out for meals or gone home for a night or two, I’ve only had a small glass, mindful that alcohol is both a depressant and doesn’t go well with hard core medication. (NB – I’ve checked with staff and I can have a little glass if I want!!)

I’ve not had huge epiphanies whilst I’ve been an in-mate but I have had moments of clarity and realisation. I’ve absorbed some of the comments from the psych team; turned & twisted them, then embraced them even though they do not always sit comfortably with me. Prickly truths and all that.

I’ve been shocked at times how devious my thought process has become in the months that I hit my all time low. Moments where I feel almost as if I’m an observer of myself. Distanced and looking on at the crazy woman who pontificates how she could sneak tablets and other items to harm myself back into the  hospital, avoiding the inevitable bag searches (FYI, I haven’t, mainly because I’m more worried about other patients who may be even more fragile than I and the potential dangers I could put them in if they went through my stuff) when I return to the ward. Then appalled as my mouth seems to disconnect from my brain and share these thoughts with the psych team. The brain is screaming “shut your mouth!!!!”at full volume whilst the gob goes spouting on and I tell them the numerous and awful ways I could do various things. For obvious reasons I won’t elaborate on those. I’m told however by the team that the fact I’ve been honest with them is a good sign so I’ll hold on that as a win. Lisa 1…. depression/anxiety,/deviousness well if not exactly a 0, at least not wholly defining me.

I know I have a long way to go. I’m not naive enough to think that once I go home everything will be magically sorted and I can bounce back, go straight into full on mode as I had been doing for so many years. I am a realist. And I’m aware that being back at home will bring the stresses and strains of the real world and I may have blips. But that’s ok. With appropriate support, therapy and remembering not to run before I can walk (I’ve never been a running fan anyway unless it involved shoe sales or last orders) I’ve begun to accept that I can regroup, rebuild and restablish myself. 

I know inevitably there will be days I can’t listen to the salient, sage advice – be that by necessity of stuff HAVING to be done (& there is a definite difference in what HAS to be done and what I would LIKE to accomplish in an ideal world) for with a medically complex child and one with autism there are always needs that are imperative and have to be addressed. But I also will acknowledge that if I don’t unload the dishwasher there and then, it’s unlikely to be a deal breaker, the world will not stop turning and the biggest issue I might face as a result is no clean tea spoons (where do they all go? Along with Tupperware lids and single socks that I know went into the machine in pairs!) 

I’m a do-er by nature. It doesn’t sit easy with me to kick back, leave things to others (control issues? 🤔) and not organise, create, or be involved.

Guilt even now is a constant companion. Guilt knowing that Martin is (awesomely) juggling a stressful job, home, kids etc; guilt that those around me are having to pick up the slack; guilt that my loved ones are worried about me, my frame of mind and whether I can cope; guilt when Minx cries after a lovely weekend spent together but I have to return to the hospital. Guilt that I can’t read bed time stories or provide in person encouragement to our son doing A-levels. Enormous, crushing, at times all encompassing, over powering guilt that I can’t wave a wand and enable our autistic child to access not just what he deserves but needs in order to meet his potential.  Even guilt that the poor dog is on his own for large parts of the day if no one is able to be at home with him.

However, guilt is not my friend and it is self destructive. So instead I choose to remember that I have made it out and about, home at times,  walked the dog, (even if it’s been late in the day) cuddled my children, kissed tears, sore knees and sent messages, spoken words of support and suggestions of help and for now that is enough. 

I am after all a work in progress ….