Bad bad bad

While I’m glad Anne’s finally got through the phase where everything and everyone is ‘daddy’, I’m less amused that she is pointing at pictures and drawings of monkeys and saying ‘mummy’. You have got to be fucking kidding me.

Complicated

“She’s being taken away from you because you don’t deserve her. Don’t get too attached.”

Those were the thoughts that flashed through my head when I was watching Neil try to revive Anne after she collapsed in the shower. Her eyes had rolled up in her head and she just keeled over backwards. I caught her before she hit the ground (I actually thought she was just playing) and when she wasn’t responsive, yelled for Neil. He checked in her mouth to make sure she hadn’t swallowed her tongue while I dialled 999, and she didn’t look like she was breathing. She finally came to when the dispatcher told us the paramedic was on his way.

I swear, I think my own heart stopped waiting for her to breathe.

So we spent the night in the hospital, first waiting in Emergency for a doctor, then a paediatrician, who decided that she should be admitted for observation as at no time before or after the fit did she have a high temperature (i.e. not a febrile fit). They didn’t say it, but they did check if she was showing symptoms of meningitis, and she isn’t. It’s a mystery.

I must, deep down, still think that things can and will go very wrong, all based on that ovarian ectopic pregnancy in 2011. I thought the fatalism would go away when Anne was born, healthy and happy, but I guess now that she’s mobile, adventurous, and inquisitive, the subconscious dread must be greater. Stranger danger, bolting out into the road, all those fears that every parent has. And if the worst happens, it’s my being her mum that means she was doomed from the start.

I’ve got to get over it. Crazy.