I keep encouraging Shannon to write more because she's the one who spends most time at the hospital, keeping an eye on Maggie and getting the skinny on the developments. And it'd be nice to hear from her anyway. It can't always be me banging on about the Taliban, Rod Stewart and god knows what else.
(I have vowed, however, to come up with some tenuous link between the girls and The Fall for a future post.)
It's been a busy weekend. We had a surprise visit from my brother Lee and my niece Amy on Saturday morning. They woke us up and I answered the door in my pants, muttering something about how they should have called first. Which I shouldn't have done - it was great to see them and particularly great that they just turned up.
We had a nice morning at home with Alice then up to the hospital to see Maggie. However, because Amy is of school age and not a sibling, she wasn't allowed in to see her. Except that a nurse allowed her in for a quick peek.
Me, Lee, Tom and Amy then left Shannon to it while we popped in for a quick pint at my beloved Eaton which, unfortunately, was full of rugby idiots watching the rugby. (Honestly, these non-pub goers who think it's okay to clog up my pub whenever they want to watch some crappy sport on the telly. And I love how they manage to make one pint last nearly two hours.)
Maggie was back in Room 2 and was quite settled. When we rang the night before one of the nurses said she'd had to be given Calpol, which seemed a bit odd. The nurse we spoke to later though said that she'd thought this was unnecessary. It's like they just make it up as they go along.
Actually, that inconsistency of care and attention really winds me up. It's seems like every time we go up there we have to ask whether things that should have been done have been done. Such as stimulating her swallow reflex or pulling her limbs about a bit. Often, it has been done - or at least they say it has - but I hate that we feel as though we always have to ask. It's like the only way we could get this properly nailed is by having all the instructions (from the speech therapist and the physiotherapist) tattooed on to Maggie's forehead. And it's not just that we worry that she's getting the right attention - it also makes us feel a bit guilty that we're not up there 24 hours a day supervising it all.
That reminds me. Shannon's been ticking me off a little bit because I'm occasionally unnecessarily negative about the care Maggie receives. I don't know, maybe I am. Or maybe I'm not. I mean, how hard is it to ensure that during every feed - which was every hour and is now every two hours - a nurse sticks her little finger into Maggie's mouth and wiggles her tongue about a bit? The answer is that it's not hard at all. In fact, it should be really fucking easy. So how come it doesn't always get done?
Thinking about it - given that Maggie's obviously going to be in NICU for a while and given that this is pretty important stuff - why can't we have a couple of nurses sticking with Maggie all the time? One for the daytime, one for the night. Nurses that we know, trust and approve of. Surely that's not beyond the realms of possibility? I think I'll suggest it.
Saturday evening was spent in front of the telly watching the X-Factor. I'm really forcing myself to give a shit this year because I desperately want it to be an entertaining diversion. Part of the problem is that I'm not drinking enough - I have my one bottle of Broadside in the evening and that's it. Witnessing such an obvious parade of twats just isn't the same when you're sober. Worse though, it was Queen night this Saturday. Queen, for fuck's sake. It wouldn't have mattered how great the individual performances were - they all had only absolutely shit songs to choose from.
Click the pics to see big versions of Maggie, Alice, Lee and Amy.