Un-slumpification: Progress Report

Back in May, I was stuck in a slump.

As, my dear friend Dr. Seuss says, un-slumping yourself is not easily done. He's right. 

It's particularly hard being that you have to un-slump yourself. 

You can't just grab a passing friend and ask for help. 

At risk of sounding a little new age-y, un-slumpification has to come from within.

So . . my un-slumping . . .how is it going?

I'm going to write a little bit about Jessica for a few paragraphs here as some of the minor slumps were related to her.

Slump #1 on my list was Jessica's failure to grow. 

Jessica's growth has always been reasonably good considering that she started off at a puny 670 grams. But it hit a little bit of plateau over the spring which had me panicking that I had not been making enough effort with her food. Which made me slump.

On Friday Jessica had her routine appointment with her consultant where she was weighed and measured. She weighed in at around 12.5 kilograms and measured just over 85 centimetres in height. I was pleased (if more than a little shocked). I knew she had grown since the spring but I had no idea just how much. 

As her doctor said, in Jessica's case it is a battle between her prematurity and her genetic inheritance and, thankfully, genetics appears to be winning out. The doctor also tells me that her rate of growth bodes well for her lungs. Perhaps it's time to lay off the custard?

So slumps 0 - Catherine W 1 

(although apart from passing on genes for 'big' I had absolutely nothing to do with this win but I'll take the credit anyhow)

My other Jessica related slump # 4 - Jessica's lack of speech. She vocalises a lot more, mainly saying something that sounds like 'gunk, gunk, gunk' over and over again. 

Louder, quieter, kindly tones, angry tones. 

Gunk, gunk, gunk, gunk. 

Believe me, I would gladly part with a couple of my teeth to find out what, exactly, gunk means. But she's only nearly two. Younger, really. Nineteen months? Probably a bit younger than that even when you consider that her first few months were spent pretty much up against it. 

I suspect that, when you are struggling to say alive, developing verbal skills isn't at the top of your list.

I think I'll leave this slump at a draw.

Slump # 2 was my pregnancy related slump. 

Despite my good intentions to walk away from this one and quit whilst I am ahead I find . . . I just . . .can't. 

Not yet. I'm not ready to let it go yet. 

So my husband and I will be setting off to the fertility clinic, ready to spend a fair proportion of our little pile of savings on attempts to find out what has gone awry. If anything.

But it just seems like a bit of a battle.

To get pregnant in the first place.

To stay pregnant for longer than I managed to the first time round.

It makes me feel weary.

But I still want to try. So there it is.

Another draw?

But that major slump? The death of Georgina slump?

That one still has me beaten. Hands down.

When you are a child and you first come up against those big questions . . 

is there a God?

what the heck am I doing here?

is what I call 'green' the same colour that everyone else calls 'green'?

what happens when you die?

why are some people born into lives of misery and poverty and others to the lap of luxury with a silver spoon and all?

 . . . .you really think about them. You think and think and think. They keep you awake at night. 

You wonder how those big, slow adults can bumble about so implacably, so stupidly. 

When they don't have any answers.

Then one day, I suppose, you either reach a conclusion that suits you, that gives you a structure to hang your life upon. Or you just put those questions away in a box marked 'unanswerable', shut the lid and pop the box up on a high shelf.

There are many things that I no longer think about. 

Some because I know that I can never hope to grasp the complexities of the issue with my limited brain power. Sure, I can try but I can almost feel my intellectual capacity sputtering away at its extreme edges as I grapple with questions of philosophy and ethics, religion and science. They simply aren't for the likes of me to answer.

Some because I believe that they fall into the category of truly 'unanswerable.'

But now I am entering a second childhood. Because some of those questions have been made personal rather than theoretical. They are no longer something to toy with, to try and be clever about, an opportunity to show off  how many books you might have read. 

Now they make a difference. 

I wake up in the night pondering questions without readily apparent answers. 

But I still ask them. I don't even know who I'm asking them of really. Some large, fuzzy parental figure? 

I'm not expecting a response.

Why did Georgina die?

Why did Jessica live?

Why was the outcome so different when they were so similar?

Why did it happen?

Was it something I did?

Was it something that I could have prevented?

Why do people who appear to hate their own children, who abuse and torment them, get to have living breathing children when so many good, kind people don't?

Why is pregnancy and childbirth so wondrous and amazing for some and so tragic and terrifying for others?

Why are some people allocated long lives of eighty years and, others, only three days?

Did Georgina know that I loved her, how proud I was of her, how beautiful she was?

Does she know still?

Where is she?

What is she?

I know that these questions are childish. They are all the incessant 'why? why? why?' of a young child. Come to think of it I wonder if Jessica's gunk-ing might mean why?

Life has always been unfair. Beautiful and appalling in equal measure. I suppose it doesn't reflect particularly well on me that it is only when life was unfair to me that these questions keep me up at night again.

These questions feel like a great pool of muddy water. I've got a big stick and I am compelled to go and give all the mud and debris in the bottom a good old stir from time to time. 

When I'm angry or sad, I go and stir up all the mess and unanswered questions. 

Bits of dead leaves and empty insect bodies all bob around on the surface. 

All this stirring about doesn't make the water any clearer. 

But sometimes I think I see a pattern, I think I see an arrangement in all the junk and muck that I've brought up to the surface. 

Not anything that could be viewed objectively, not something that I could point out to another. 

Not even an answer to any of these questions.  

Certainly not anything pretty.

But something . . . reassuring. A comfort. 

In the beauty of that tiny child. 

In that short almost life. 

In those almost breaths. 

Nearly. So nearly.

Or perhaps I just think I see something there because the alternative is too hard to live with. 

Perhaps because it is my job to find patterns in things that appear random and chaotic.

And we all know what they say about statistics 'lies, damned lies and statistics.' 

Because you can force any old bunch of stuff to appear to say something to back you up, if you try hard enough. If you want it so say something, you can usually make it. If you are ingenious enough.

But still . . . I think I see something.

Another draw?

So I'm winning by one on the slump front. 

Not bad.

I'm off on holiday today too.

Definitely a win.

Take that slump. I'll beat you yet.