It's over....

Today was the longest day of my life, and I can only hope that I never go through this again. I'm exhausted, emotionally and physically and feel as though all my stuffing has been knocked out. Perhaps the most difficult part was the number of small but significant difficult moments that came up through the day.

This post may contain some slightly difficult issues, so if you are feeling sensitive I'd suggest you read it when you're feeling stronger. I certainly don't want to upset anyone.

I arrived at the hospital at 830 this morning, starved from midnight as advised. I knew that it was very unlikely that I would be in theatre before 1230 as they had warned me that I would be on the emergency list. Being a Monday, I knew there would have been lots of other emergencies over the weekend, so I was sort of prepare for a wait, but I was needed at home for the evening, so I could help with James. We're having some difficult evenings at the moment (last night was a classic - having been sat on the toilet on and off for 5 minutes, he did a massive poo in the bath so we needed one of us to shower the children, the other to deal with the rather unpleasant bath....), so I couldn't leave David home alone with both children. Plus, I wouldn't have been able to get home from the hospital without him.

I had explained this last week, and begged them to make sure I was on the list as early in the day as possible. Sadly, this didn't happen. The night SHO had failed to put me on the list early enough and when the day team came and told me I was ver upset. I begged them to get me on the list earlier, explaining that I would have to self discharge if it got to 6pm. I find it really upsetting that I have lost my baby, have chosen to attend for an operation, yet cannot be added to an elective gynae operating list. If I was having a termination, it would have been a completely different story, with me being far more in control and more likely to get a slot that suited me. It's really not fair and I will be bringing this up when I write a carefully worded letter to PALS.

When the SHO was doing the consent form, I asked whether the products could be sent for genetic analysis. Explaining that we already had a severely disabled child, and that knowing that there was (or wasn't) a genetic explanation would help us gain some closure. Apparently it isn't protocol until you've had three miscarriages, due to NHS funding issues. I know James' problems don't have a specific genetic explanation (although there is strong evidence that there is a genetic component in autism), but if we knew that there was a chromosomal problem with this baby that might have a recurrence risk then we can start making decisions about whether we would continue trying to extend our family or not. The thought that I may never hold another baby in my arms fills me with sadness and sorrow, but I know we would never be able to handle another severely disabled child with James' needs. I couldn't provide the sort of home I would want to provide for any of my children if we brought another disabled child into the world. Of course, I am aware that there may be no answers from these tests. I am also very aware that tests will not rule out autism, and that we could proceed with a pregnancy and be facing rearing another autistic child. None of this is easy to deal with, and I guess I'm quite raw at the moment and will be guided by how I feel a few weeks down the line. We discussed many of these issues before trying for a baby, and whilst in the first weeks of this pregnancy, so I know we'll make the right decision for us.

Eventually, the registrar agreed to write the form, but asked me to take it to the genetics department myself and talk to someone there to try and persuade them to do the test "off protocol". I was aghast, and it was the hardest conversation I had all day but I must have found a symmpathetic laboratory assistant as she took my request form to the powers that be and they agreed without a fuss. But there was more to come - when it looked as though I would not be going down to theatre until very close to the cut off time to get the sample to the lab, they suggested I took the sample up there myself! Or alternatively get my husband to do it.... I'm sorry, but I found that totally inappropriate, I would have just about come round from the anaesthetic and was expected to toddle down the corridor to the genetics centre holding a jar that contained my dead baby. I lost it at that point and told them that the porters would just have to do the job they were paid to do.

Finall, at 230, they let me know that I was going down to theatre. I started getting dressed and then removed my jewellery etc. I asked where I could store them and was told just to leave them by the bed. I was shocked, especially when I was told that they had never had anything go missing. There was no way I was going to take that risk - I have had £4000 worth of jewellery go missing from hospital grounds so once bitten, twice shy. I demanded somewhere locked for my valuables and was told there was nowhere. I lost it, screaming and shouting at the poor healthcare assistant, refusing to go to theatre until somewhere was located. Eventually everything was easily sorted, but not until I had had to get beside myself with frustration. Yet another thing I'll be mentioning to PALS...

On my way to theatre, I became more and more emotionally distressed, experiencing the most profound, deepest, most intest, all consuming, visceral pain I have ever experienced. The theatre staff were so kind, compassionate, understanding and allowed me to wail, my cries were almost not human. The anaesthetic was administered quickly and easily and I woke in recovery feeling warm, safe and knowing it was over. I'm still in pain, both physically and emotionally, but knowing my baby is no longer inside me is somehow a relief. It's going to take a long time to heal from this profound experience, but it can only make me stronger.

Empty

I know all about the grief cycle - we studied it thoroughly enough during our psychology and psychiatry training at medical school and I have supported various families through their losses, both in the neontatal period and with older children. So here I am, in the midst of my own experience and all I feel is empty. Perhaps because at the moment I don't feel there's any closure, I almost feel distant from the whole experience. If I hadn't been for my scan on Wednesday I would still be pregnant (in my head, at least). I would be planning my future with my new baby, and thinking about all the logistics of adding to our family. Instead I'm in limbo, neither pregnant nor actually NOT pregnant. I'm hoping that my operation tomorrow will mean I can start facing my future again. Planning a very different future, but still a future.

I'm staying strong at the moment for the family. James has no idea what is going on and is going through a rather challenging time at the moment. His current favoured activity in the car is to undo his seatbelt and wind down the window, throwing himself out, Dukes of Hazzard style. I'm hoping a friend is going to be able to lend me her spare five point harness car seat suitable up to age 8, as it's getting quite dangerous now.... He's very hyper at the moment too, and perhaps that's because I don't really feel up to spending time with him. I feel so guilty about that and David is managing the brunt of his difficult behaviour but I need to look after myself at the moment.

The weekend has actually been easier than I expected. I had a stall at Duck Pond Market selling my crafty bits and bobs. I've been going there since April, and this was my most successful weekend. The scarves went down very well and my hand dyed yarn is proving very popular. I'm guessing I'll be back to dyeing over the Christmas break, to restock. I had avoided dyeing whilst pregnant as there is a risk of respiratory difficulties with inhaling the dye powders. So now I can do as I please! The other crafters at the market are amazing people - I have shared my difficult news with them and they've all been so supportive this weekend. I wouldn't have got through the weekend without them. I also indulged in some therapeutic spending, which was lovely.

Think of me tomorrow, my friends. I will be waiting and knitting a therapeutic project to keep my mind occupied. I'm sure there will be a lot of tears and heartache, but it will be the beginning of a new phase, the start of a clean slate, and some sort of closure.

Falling apart

I'm sorry to come and share such terrible news, but feel it will be cathartic to get it out.

In my last post I mentioned that things her had gone from mad chaos to madder chaos! Part of that was driven by the lovely news in October that we were expecting our third, and much wanted, baby. Ironically, I had just increased my working hours to two days a week, with the intention of taking on a third day in the New Year. Life was about to get complicated again. We talked and worried about the future - what if James regressed again when the new baby arrived, how would I cope with three children, what would the summer holidays be like, juggling a new baby and James (as well as Bea), how would Bea cope - she's already playing second fiddle to James and a new baby would possibly sideline her even more. And we made plans for the future, where the baby would sleep, what new car we would buy, sorting out all the clothes that I've hoarded in the loft, planning names, excitement at the prospect of a summer not working and looking after my lovely children. The future looked bright and exciting, as well as challenging.

Three days ago our world fell apart. I was 12 to 13 weeks pregnant (my dates are a little uncertain and whilst I had pushed for an earlier scan it never happened) and went to my nuchal fold scan. We had agreed that if the nuchal fold was suggestive of any abnormalities I would go forward for further testing. We never anticipated what happened when I entered the room. I took Bea along, and will probably regret that for the rest of my life. I wish I hadn't allowed her to experience what was the most painful morning of my entire life.

There were two sonographers in the room, the trainee and her supervisor. The trainee started the scan and David and I were beaming with excitement. We were about to meet our new baby. At first all she could find was my (very full!) bladder, then there was a gestational sac. There was something inside it, but I wasn't convinced it was quite what we should be seeing at this stage. The supervising sonographer took over and as soon as she put the probe back on my abdomen I knew what we were facing. She asked me if I had experienced any pain or bleeding and I felt like saying "not until you asked me, and now I am breaking in two". She asked me to empty my bladder so I could have an internal, and I went to the loo all composed and serene as if it was happening to someone else. I'm still not sure if David understood at this point or not. The internal showed the sac and a collection of cells but no heartbeat. I told her I could see there wasn't a heartbeat and I knew what had happened. I needed to know when my baby had stopped growing and she said around 9 or 10 weeks. I got dressed and was taken to a side room, where I shed a few tears and then composed myself for Bea's sake.

The next hour was the most horrific of my life. We went up to the Gynaecology ward, and waited, and waited, and waited. There were no tissues, there were posters about Chlamydia screening, there were other women in there laughing and cuddling their partners (I now know most of them were waiting for early scans because of bleeding or pain) and I just wanted to die. I felt as though my life had come to an end, that it would never be the same again. I just wanted to close the book, and reopen it at a new and happier ending. I wanted them to be wrong and to still have my baby inside me. I finally saw a nurse and she suggested I should just let things happen naturally. Or I could take some drugs that would induce a miscarriage. But I want the possiblity of some answers, and have pushed to have an operation as that way histology can be performed. If I can find out that there was some sort of reason for this to happen I will feel more at ease. Perhaps it was a genetic defect or an infection that meant the baby couldn't survive. Then I can stop torturing myself with all the questions I'm currently asking myself.

Think of me on Monday, when I will be spending most of the day at the hospital. I don't know how it will go but I will come back and share with you as soon as I feel able.

8 months is a long time, so perhaps you feel you'd like to know a bit more about what I've been up to. It's a long story, so I hope you've got a cup of tea and are sitting somewhere comfy!

The bottom line is that life has gone from mad chaos to, well, madder chaos! The only thing that could make our lives more hectic would be if we got a dog - luckily neither myself or my husband are dog lovers!

James managed to get through most of the last term of school uneventfully. All the winter bugs and viruses had worked their way through his system so he managed to get through a whole term without missing a day. This was a major acheivement - the first two terms, he was missing at least one day alternate weeks! I was called into school on numerous occasions which started to get embarrassing! If a qualified doctor can't decide whether he child is well enough for school, what does she do with patients?!

In May we had booked a week at The Thomas Centre - the descriptions and ethos made it sound like an ideal venue for a holiday for families like ours. It is impossible to explain how much organisation is required when going away with a child like James. He needs his routines and can't be allowed to roam freely around the house/grounds unlike other children his age. He gets bored and distracted easily so needs to have activities available to him but if he doesn't enjoy them we need to be able to leave quickly and diffuse the situation. So a holiday "village" set up specifically for families with autistic children sounds ideal doesn't it? We phoned ahead and made sure there would be stair gates (to keep him out of the kitchen) and with plenty of preparation felt we were leaving with all we'd need. But things didn't go according to plan. The first hurdle was that a week before we were due to go, I fell down the stairs at the train station and fractured my coccyx. Ouch. There is no treatment, other than rest and painkillers, so I was in agony and could barely bend for the week before we left. I wasn't relishing the idea of a five hour drive with a sore lower back, and my expectations weren't dashed! Not only was I in agony, but James found the journey very difficult and spent the majority of the time throwing things out of the car window (thankfully, not himself or his clothes!). We are now considering buying a new car with electric windows at the back!

The complex itself was lovely - there was a small childrens play area in front of the cottage, a large trampoline in the grounds, a heated swimming pool which you booked out for the family so had total privacy, a games shed with ten pin bowling and a pool table, and a play room with a piano and children's toys. Perhaps my biggest disappointment was the fact that whilst luxurious and comfortable the actual cottage wasn't geared up to a very active autistic child. We spent the first few hours "de-Jamesing" the place, putting things out of reach, moving lamps and breakables into other rooms and generally worrying about how much damage he'd do. I was surprised that this hadn't been considered when designing the place, to be honest.

The week had a lot of ups and downs. Actually, an awful lot of downs for me, but that was as much to do with my levels of pain as anything else. There were surprises - for instance James HATED his trip to the Aquarium in Hull and was indifferent to the animals at Rushmoor Park but loved the outdoor play there. He surprised us several times by sitting down (outside) and eating his lunch without moving. A huge achievement for him, and us. By far the most successful day was our trip to Pleasure Island. James has always been a thrill seeker (as a four month old baby, a good way of calming him down was to turn him upside down - I guess he had a lot of proprioceptive and sensory needs even then). He spent the whole day grinning and cuddling us and Bea loved it too. Whenever we go away we always make sure there is a similar facility around for us to access.

Luckily our journey home was a lot less stressful and my pain had subsided a bit by then. We haven't decided whether we would go back and perhaps will wait until James is a bit calmer to try again. What has become clear is that we are unlikely to take any more holidays for quite some time, as it was more exhausting and stressful than staying at home. One option would be to take a carer with us, and we will definitely be considering that for any future family breaks.

So that's part of my update, and I'll add more soon!

Long time, no post

I have just noticed that my last post was back in March! I can't believe it's been so long. Time just flies. We had a rather hectic summer and the first half term break has been and gone, and now we have the run up to my least favourite time of year. Christmas is full of pain for me - James' birthday is 3 weeks beforehand, and it feels like rubbing salt in the wound. All around me people are getting excited about present buying, the children are getting feverish with anticipation and the joys of the festive season abound. I am usually drowning in a sea of dark depression, facing the thought of four days stuck at home with very little to do and a child who has no idea what Christmas is about, let alone what to do with the (few) presents he gets. And I have no idea what to get him either. Can you imagine how hard that is, having a child for whom you cannot find a suitable gift? I suppose I could buy him some new clothes (he is back to chewing through t shirts at a rate of one a day...) but that doesn't really count does it? Or maybe some new shoes - we have such a hard time getting his shoes fitted that they now cost me over £50! He has no interest in the TV, so a DVD is out of the question, and he can't ride a bike or scooter so that's not an option either. It is one of the many things that makes me feel an inadequate parent.

But I'm not going to continue in this negative frame of mind. I stumbled across this little gem on someone elses blog and thought it might cheer me up to fill it in and share.

All about me:
Things you've already done: bold
Things you want to do: italicize
Things you haven't done and don't want to - leave in plain font

1. started your own blog
2. slept under the stars
3. played in a band
4. visited Hawaii
5. watched a meteor shower
6. given more to charity than you could afford
7. been to disneyland/world
8. climbed a mountain
9. held a praying mantis
10. sang a solo
11.bungee jumped
12. visited paris
13. watched a lightning storm at sea –
14. taught yourself an art from scratch
15. adopted a child
16. had food poisoning
17. walked to the top of the Statue of Liberty
18. grown your own vegetables-
19. seen the mona lisa in france
20. slept on an overnight train
21. had a pillow fight
22. hitch hiked
23. taken a sick day when you’re not ill
24. built a snow fort
25. held a lamb - and bottle fed it
26. gone skinny dipping
27. run a marathon
28. ridden a gondola in venice
29. seen a total eclipse –
30. watched a sunrise or sunset –
31. hit a home run
32. been on a cruise
33. seen niagara falls in person
34.visited the birthplace of my ancestors
35. seen an Amish community
36. taught yourself a new language
37. had enough money to be truly satisfied
38. seen the leaning tower of pisa in person –
39. gone rock climbing
40. seen Michael Angelo's David in real life
41. sung karaoke
42. seen old faithful geyser erupt
43. bought a stranger a meal in a restaurant
44. visited Africa
45. walked on a beach by moonlight –
46. been transported in an ambulance
47. had your portrait painted
48. gone deep sea fishing
49. seen the cistene chapel in person
50. been to the top of the Eiffel Tower in Paris
51. gone scuba diving or snorkelling
52. kissed in the rain
53. played in the mud
54. gone to a drive-in theatre
55. been in a movie
56. visited the great wall of china
57. started a business
58. taken a martial arts class
59. visited Russia
60. served at a soup kitchen
61. sold girl guide cookies
62. gone whale watching
63. gotten flowers for no reason
64. donated blood
65. gone sky-diving
66. visited a nazi concentration camp
67. bounced a cheque
68. flown in a helicopter
69. saved a favorite childhood toy –
70. visited the Lincoln Memorial
71. eaten caviar
72. pieced a quilt
73. stood in times square
74. toured the everglades
75. been fired from a job
76. seen the changing of the guard in london
77. broken a bone
78. been on a speeding motorcycle
79. seen the grand canyon in person
80. published a book
81. visited the vatican
82. bought a brand new car –
83. walked in Jerusalem
84. had your picture in the newspaper
85. read the entire bible
86.visited the White House
87. killed and prepared an animal for eating
88. had chickenpox
89. saved someone’s life
90. sat on a jury
91. met someone famous
92. joined a bookclub
93. lost a loved one
94. had a baby
95. seen the Alamo in person
96. swum in the great salt lake.
97. been involved in a law suit
98. owned a cell phone
99. been stung by a bee

What does your list look like?

Two for the price of one

Yes, you've guessed it, I have not one but two poxy children. Fun and games all round here. I guess we've been rather lucky that neither of them have been particularly unwell with it, no prodromal fever or coryza and not too many spots. But I feel like I'm stuck here, and am getting cabin fever. There have been a few bonuses - as James isn't being picked up at 740am we're getting a lie in (although Bea joined us at 6am this morning, putting a dampner on that plan!) and he's more tired than usual so is sleeping until 9ish. He's also less "busy" than usual and far more amenable to instruction and requests.

I read a very small newspiece in the British Medical Journal a few months ago. It related to a finding that children with autism appeared less autistic when they had a fever. I suppose that the background assumption might be that as they have areas of the brain that function in a different way to typically developing children, their brain's response to a temperture may be different too. I must dig out the reference and read it properly. When I first saw this, it made me think about James. He is certainly less autistic when he's ill, but he doesn't need to have a temperature. He is quieter, less frenetic and more predictable. He moves a bit more slowly and is easier to engage. He allows himself to be hugged and reciprocates more than when he's well. His language is a bit more clear at times, although he will sometimes mumble and not bother speaking at all if he's really unwell. But it makes me wonder whether in his case the fact that he is slowed down by being ill is what reduces his autistic features. This is pertinent at the moment, because we are going through an assessment for probable ADHD and the outcome is likely to be a trial of medication. I am in two minds - on the one hand if the medication allows his brain to slow down, he may be able to access more from the curriculum and hence make greater progress at school, on the other hand we're looking at giving him a drug which has some pretty impressive side effects. I think we'll probably agree to give him a trial period and then make an informed decision about long term treatment once we've seen how he reacts.

I guess just as we might as well have both children with chicken pox at the same time, we may as well have ASD and ADHD....

Happy Mother's Day!

A day late, but as you'll see there are reasons for that. Yesterday was Mother's Day, a day I find slightly bitter sweet. Some of that is no doubt to do with the way it's become yet another commercialised merchandise driven celebration - I'd rather a hand made card and an hour in bed than a bottle of perfume (or, as I was shocked to discover, some anti ageing cream, advertised as "the perfect gift for Mother's Day - call me ungrateful, but if my son or daughter gave me anti ageing cream for Mother's Day, I'd be quite offended). The other reason is that it's yet another reminder of what we don't have.

Six years ago, on Mother's Day, I found myself holding a white stick with two clear pink lines. We danced around the flat, shaking, crying (with happiness), amazed that we had achieved this incredible thing - we had made a baby. I was stunned, as I had previously been told I would probably find conceiving difficult and need medical support, but it had all happened naturally, within three months of trying. We held each other close and from that moment on, I began to see myself as a mother. I imagined future Mother's Days, with cards, hugs, kisses and joy. I wondered what my baby would be like, how s/he would be at one, two, five, ten. In all my imaginings I never considered that I would be mothering a severely disabled child. I was realistic - things were never going to be the same, it was no longer just me and my husband, we had another life to consider, another human being to nourish, teach, love and support. But not once did I consider that I might have to deal with continued frustration, constant worry, stress, anxiety and rejection from my own child. I guess you tend to look at child rearing with rather rose tinted spectacles during your first pregnancy.

This was the first Mother's Day, of six, that I was greeted with "Happy Mother's Day!" by my child. But not by James, by Beatrix. I don't know whether James will ever learn to use phrases like that, he's just about stringing a two word phrase together, mainly "Want x or y or z" relating to food! Perhaps with time he will. I was treated to a leisurely afternoon, relaxing in my summer house, knitting and reading the paper. Though I had taken James swimming and then on his weekly social exercise at the supermarket, so I felt like I deserved some time off. I watched as the children jumped on the trampoline and climbed their new climbing frame and I felt blessed. I think this is a reflection of me having accepted things more readily now, and seeing that we can't change James, and love him as he is. For me, and for my husband, we share the view that if someone could take away James' autism, we would do it without a moment's hesitation, but that's not going to happen, so acceptance eases the burden of grief and loss.

So I'm relaxed and bathing in the hazy glow of maternal love when my husband asks me to take a look at Bea's neck - she's got lots of red spots. My bubble bursts - the dreaded chicken pox. That's a full week of quarantine at home. And then in a couple of weeks James is going to get it too. Quickly do the maths, and realise it will be the school holidays. Joy. Oh well, onwards and upwards! Happy Mother's Day - I wasn't expecting that sort of present!!!

Friendships

Today when I picked James up from the childminder, he was playing with her new colleague. He had met her before, but was clearly drawn to her, hugging her, giggling uncontrollably and grinning from ear to ear. Watching the two of them together was a very precious moment - a lot of people find it hard to engage with James, and difficult to get anything back from him, so to watch her naturally follow his lead and get so much back was incredibly uplifting. It was as if he had found a new friend.

Friendships and autism don't really mix - the children with high functioning autism and Aspergers often desperately want friends but are let down by their social skills and their inability to "read" other people. This can lead to a lot of stress and even depression during their adolescent years - imagine the loneliness and isolation, knowing you're different, but unable to conform and "fit in" at a time when being part of the crowd is so important. And then there's the children like James, who have no idea what a friendship is, so aren't even aware of what they're missing out on. James is so engaged in his own (autistic) world that he doesn't notice people coming and going, and is very isolated in his "play" (if you can call it that) so anyone who tries to be friendly is ignored. Like a lot of autistic children, he prefers the company of adults and older children - I guess because they're more likely to help him get his needs met. I do get upset from time to time, but then I console myself with the thought that he won't get hung up on all the intricacies and challenges that adolescent friendships bring. No falling out with friends, no trying hard to support them through difficult times, no feeling left out when they meet new people, no worries about fitting in. Perhaps these are more "female" views of friendship, but I'm sure boys go through a lot of this too. I have a feeling that Bea is going to give me a double dose of teenage angst though, so perhaps I should be thanking my lucky stars!

My friendships are a source of support, laughter, hugs, booze and hope. Over the last two years I have met so many inspiring, special people who have helped me in all sorts of ways. I don't know where I'd be now if it weren't for them. I really need my friends, and hope that to some extent they need me, even if it is only for more yarn related advice! It's funny, when I think back to the days surrounding the time of James' diagnosis when all I could see was closed doors and doom and gloom I can't help seeing a new perspective now. It's as if he's opened doors for me, brought these wonderful people into my life and made it all happen.

Here's to autism and friendships - maybe they don't go hand in hand directly, but in a roundabout way, through joint experience and understanding, they are strongly interlinked.

Laughter is the best medicine

I can tell that winter is well and truly behind us, you can't fail to have noticed the crocuses, the daffodils and the sunshine! I have even tried hanging my washing out to dry a couple of times - I love the smell of freshly dried laundry. With the dawning of spring, I feel my general state of mind lifting and lightening. I have a wave of positive thinking and feeling, with the impetus to finally drive change. I am able to take charge of all the areas of my life that need work, and actually do something about them. I honestly think I am made for hibernation - the idea of curling up somewhere warm and dark for a few months and waking up to find spring in the air holds a lot of appeal. I wouldn't miss a thing about winter - it has the two lowest points in the year for me, James' birthday and Christmas. The aimless trawling through shops and catalogues and online "bargains" in a futile attempt to find something that might interest him only deepens my depression. The sadness is palpable as we hand him a present that he doesn't even acknowledge. OK, the only thing I would miss about winter is mulled wine, but it doesn't have to be winter for that!

With my new drive and vigour comes a return of laughter into my life. I find so little to fuel my sense of humour through the winter period, but now I'm full of hope and laughter. The best source of laughter for me is usually my children - James has episodes of manic laughter which we often can't fathom, but they're so intense it's impossible NOT to join in. Bea is going through a very amusing phase and comes out with all sorts of funnies, telling my husband "you got boobies daddy" (I think she meant nipples - his physique is a LONG way away from developing man boobs!), pointing out people falling asleep in the coffee shop, telling me I can stop cleaning and go to the ball with Prince Charming (and of course, I did as she said, I'm never one to cry off a ball, and housework is a definite second to a hot date!). But topping the charts for laughter provision this week is my good friend's blog - Slightly South of Sanity. I beg you to read it. I challenge you to read it and not cry tears of laughter - I read passages out to my husband and we're both in stitches. She has such a way with words, and I know for a fact that none of this is made up! So if you're in need of a pick-me-up, don't turn to the gin, pour yourself a double dose of laughter!