A few weeks ago, she had a brain seizure. I'd arrived home from work and an ambulance pulled in behind me. My lovely big 17 year old son stepped out of the doorway looking as if he'd seen a ghost and at that moment I knew something was seriously wrong with my little girl.
She was in a disheveled heap on the floor so I wrapped my arms around her and tried to keep her calm whilst two paramedics and a trainee attempted to assess her condition. We went over the possibilities, had she taken drugs [but, she's such a good girl...], was she having a stroke [ok slurring, she could move...] or was it low blood sugar?
She was hot, she'd been sick, she was struggling out of my grasp, then her eyes rolled up and sideways. The paramedics were attempting to stick her with a pin to get a blood sample, put an oxygen monitor on her finger and shift her to a stretcher. They were constantly asking her who she was, and pinching her [which is an AVPU Alert, Voice, Pain, Unresponsive assessment.] All they got back was a guttural growl [don't think... just keep calm... stroke her hair, she likes that... hug son, get in ambulance... why did we move to a country town? don't think...]
The paramedics had called for an 'Intensive Care' ambulance to meet us on route to the hospital [what for? what was the risk? drive faster...] They all kept talking in numbers [an other assessment called a Glasgow Coma Score from 3-15, and she was a 5-6 so might have needed to be intubated and ventilated...] Now there were four paramedics and two trainees and after another series of assessments the senior officer put a cannula in her vein then we raced off again. On arrival at hospital they hooked her up to loads of monitors and within an hour she had a CAT scan.
Time seemed to slow to a crawl. All I could do was stand back and watch the medical profession do their thing [just keep stroking her hair, she likes that... willing her back... come back to mummy...] My husband and son arrived and we waited [hug son... hug husband... be calm and explain what happened... don't cry... hold her hand... come back to mummy... don't leave...] and waited and waited.
Slowly she began to respond but her answers were weird Q: What day is it? A: March. The scan was normal [yes!] and she purred and smiled when the nurse covered her with a warm blanket [yes, yes!] It took four long hours for her 'dysphasia' to disappear [she could hear and understand the questions, but her brain could not produce the correct words.]
Eventually, my little girl came back, and a barrage of subsequent testing indicates her brain is fine, she has no tumours her blood tests are clear. No-one can say what actually caused her seizure or whether she will have another. All I can say is that I'm grateful. She is here and when I stroke her hair she smiles and says she likes it.
Other mothers are not as lucky as me. On a daily basis, they are being told their child has a terminal illness, a serious injury or has passed away. Their loss becomes twofold; the child that was, and the person their child could have become. A friend and colleague, Lyndey Milan, lost her son just weeks ago from acute myeloid leukemia. I wonder how she will get through today? She still has a daughter who will be by her side, but Blair's absence will require a huge reserve of fortitude. Given that both of them lived a public life, she has shared a series of images 'Our beautiful Blair'.
On mother's day, I also think about my mum who died a few years ago. She was 84, demented, with a secondary cancer so she was institutionalised and required palliative care. As an adult, I didn't like her very much, but as a daughter, I was glad to be her advocate, to guard her dignity and to ensure her last days were filled with music that she so loved. I have friends who will soon face the loss of their mother and others who lost their mother when they were young. It is never a good time as the relationship we have with our mothers seem so significant (and complicated!)
Soon the Government will trial an 'intervention' for teen mothers which appears to take a punitive approach and fuel the assumption that these 'types' of mums are without potential. However, many teen mums achieve at a high level as evidenced by the Barnados Australian mother of the Year Rebecca Healy. (If you have time and need inspiration, read the profiles of the 2011 State nominees and previous winners too.) I also read in The Australian last week that approx 100,000 women in this country terminate pregnancies each year.
Many mothers (or is it women in general) seem to have an inner strength and the ability to do amazing things in the face of adversity. Other mothers, are less strong and seem to make decisions that cause their children harm. Also, there are step-mums, foster mums, adoptive mums and surrogate mums and women who have chosen not, or find themselves unable, to be mothers. It is easy to view the world from our own perspective and offer opinions on how others should act. I can only suggest we all try to elicit empathy, respect, support and share our wisdom to all the mothers (or not) we encounter.
