The Kat Cave

So, with Jack having reached 3 years old, and with the only obvious problem being that he would insist on using only blue paint for art projects, Tom and I decided to give parenthood a final shot. Another round of IVF. Painful shots in the ass. Two embryos planted. Only one succeeded.

Having sailed through the first pregnancy, the second time round was a little rougher, physically and emotionally.

The first four months were spent being so violently sick, I ended up having anti-emetic injections, having lost a lot of weight.

At 20 weeks, I suspected that I was having another baby boy, and we decided that we would name him Barnaby. I have no idea why. He just felt like a Barnaby.

At 26 weeks, he stopped moving. While he had never moved so much, I had two days where I felt nothing at all, and panicked. So a trip to the ER department ensued, and we were sent up to the maternity unit. A scan revealed that he was sleeping, and was fine. His heart rate was normal, and increased when buzzed. He was just… chilling out.

At 30 weeks, we had a similar scare. Again, everything was actually fine.

And then came the worst news of all. While we’d been busy stressing about the baby, Tom did not want to worry me by telling me that he was once again getting sick. He had been fighting leukemia since his teenage years, and while initially diagnosed with the childhood form of the illness which went into remission, the illness came back in a more aggressive and chronic form.

He turned 27 in September 2003, the month in which Barnaby was due to be born. Of his 27 years, he’d had over 12 years of chemo and radiotherapies. He couldn’t take much more. In consultation with his doctors, they began to look for another bone marrow donor, which would be his only hope - and having had one failed transplant, the odds were not looking particularly bright. But for the sake of his boys, Tom would try.

September came and went, and Barnaby was not in the mood for coming out. At 42 weeks and 5 days, on October 12 2003, I was admitted to the hospital and induced.

A day later, Barnaby Édouard Mackenzie Cavadino - baby Barney - made his appearance. His first cry sounded more like a wibble of complaint at us having disturbed him. And ever since, he is the most placid and mellow of my children, only crying when he REALLY needs attention.

He spent his first six months living almost exclusively in the hospital, as we tried to spend as much time with Tom as we could.

On April 6 2004, Tom passed away, hours after we were married in his hospital room.

He left me with two wonderful boys and 7 years of wonderful memories and experiences. I look at the boys now, and know he’d be so proud of them. While Jack looks like a carbon copy of his dad, and has inherited his brain, Barney has taken on his dad’s genuine love of people and his compassion.

He spent a year worrying speech therapists, because he became convinced he was a tiger and would only say “RAWWWR”. Alas, he is made from a “Typical Boy” mould, and seconds after being bathed, he’s dirty again. He’s the only boy I know to get mud inside his gum boots. My brother calls him PigPen, and gets a slap for that.

He’s not so interested in books, and prefers mud and water and building blocks.

He’s always the first to share his cookies with me if he thinks I’m sad, and the first to give me cuddles, and the first to own up if one of his siblings has misbehaved. He’s particularly close to his baby sister, and she’s going to walk all over him when she gets older.

His favourite food is banana, and when we got him a puppy, he named it himself. Hence Banane. We will not be canvassing his opinion on names for his new siblings.

You have been growing for 34 weeks and 5 days.

You have coped admirably with being beaten to a pulp by not ONE, but TWO babies.

For the past 21 years, I have cussed you out for giving me the period cramps from hell. And 14 weeks ago, I pleaded with you not to have such frequent contractions.

At todays NST/BPP, you did not contract. Not even ONCE. I suppose you think it’s funny?

I apologise for saying horrible things to you. Truly, I do. I’m starting to think you’re really not trying anymore. I don’t necessarily want to go into labor right now, but should that happen, I’d like to know that you’re at least prepared. Are you not tempted to at least practice? Not even just a little? Are you going into this pretending that you know it all already?

Because, trust me, buddy, go on strike on the day, and that OB guy will come at you with a scalpel. And I won’t stop him.

We’re a partnership, you and I. And you’re not pulling your weight right now. I have to heave you around, get you from A to B. I know you’re a little tense and maybe over stretched, but I talk to you and reassure you that we’ll get through this. So, please. I’m not asking for much. Just…. a little activity, now and again, to let me know you’ve not given up on me, and that you’re capable of doing the job that, quite frankly, is the only reason you exist.

Thank you.

Katrina.

PS - the babies you’re carrying are perfectly fine and healthy and are quite happily practice breathing. They’re ready when you are.

So, I’m writing my first novel, a tragi-comedy on mental illness. I know a lot of people with mental health issues, and it’s a highly misunderstood area. If you have a broken leg (or a broken hand), people know how to mend that, they know what to say, they know it will get better. Say you have a mental illness, and you’re seen as a retard for life. People just don’t know what to do or say. So the aim of the book is to write something to express the inner voice of those trapped in that hell.

One of my best friends, Kezzy, will co-write the novel with me. She took an overdose 4 weeks ago, and is currently being legally held in a mental hospital just outside Manchester, UK. She’s a manic depressive, who doesn’t like the trendy label of Bi-Polar, which is the latest celebrity illness du jour. We talk about her illness, and she is amazingly frank about it all. There is no known cause of her illness. She has had years of counselling and cognitive behavioural therapy, which have established that there is no cause. No one knows why she has the will to live of a lemming. I love her dearly, and wish nothing but the best for her. I no longer get stressed about her being sick. She is who she is.

Kezzy will get better. And then she will get sick again. In the words of Kurt Vonnegut, and so it goes.

I haven’t written very much lately, because I just… can’t.

Jamie, my darling little brother, slammed the front door, not realising my hand was in the way.

I tried to be a brave little soldier, but a trip to the ER confirmed that I have two cracked bones in my hand. Which is now in plaster.

Indie thoughtfully put my cellphone down the toilet.

I’m 34 weeks pregnant, and measuring at 44 weeks. I’m just too big now to do anything successfully. And I’m on so much pain from the babies and the broken hand, that I just want to cry.

It’s all a little gloomy, but in maybe three weeks, my little guys will be here. Hurrah!

I haven’t forgotten or abandoned you all. Really

I cant really say much about this image. Without crying myself. Taken as Obama speaks of his deceased Grandmother. Fuck the race issue. The world is just proud you elected someone who can string a sentence together.

There’s been online buzz comparing Obama to Spock or Tuvok, emotionless vulcans, as he displayed an almost eery calm in the face of some of the most shocking attacks. But. he really is only human. Whether this will be to his benefit or his detriment in office, only time will tell.

(Shame on you, California.)

Back in 1997, courtesy of my British passport, I got to vote in a British General Election.

Years of failing, crippling government was overturned, and a new Prime Minister was elected. There was a sense of euphoria across the country, the something new and exciting was happening. That as a people, the UK had voted for change and hope.

Please, I hope to god that Obama does not replicate that. The world, and especially America, does not need another Tony Blair.

(And for those Americans reading - I love you, I love your country, with caveats and exceptions. That being - Texas.)

Hurrah. There’s a new President waiting in the wings, and for the first time ever, the First Family is black. An historic victory. Bigotry beaten?

Not quite yet.

Americans were not only voting on their President, Senate and House of Reps, but were also voting on various pieces of not inconsequential State legislation.

One of the most public campaigns has been about Proposition 8 in California, which - if the voters pass it - will change the State constitution to rule that marriage is between a man and a woman. A Yes vote is a vote against marriage for gay people. And one of the most despicable thing about it is the supporters targeting families, claiming that a No vote will mean their kids will be educated about same sex relationships, and will be “turned gay”.

Since when is education a bad thing? Since when is it good or right to say who should spend their life with whom?

President Elect Obama may be picking out the furniture for his posh new house right now.

In the mean time, more votes to pass Prop 8 have been counted than votes to ban it. Only 32 % of the vote has been counted, and I’m trying to remain hopeful.

I’m a Quebecoise. How does this affect me? What does it matter to me if it passes or not?

It matters. Because I have rights that will be denied to other people. And that is unfair and unjust. And I can’t explain to my children why this is so - because it makes no freakin’ sense to me.

Mr McCain is getting very animated as he says the US “never gives up”. His speech ends with the classic maverick’s anthem, Here I Go Again (On My Own) by Whitesnake.

…because hopefully everyone else is with Obama…

From the BBC

Pic taken by Kezzy

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Joanna Newsom has to be one of my favourite artists. Rather like vege- and marmite, she’s not to everyone’s taste… But I adore her!

And do so wisely.

Newspaper covers rarely stick in my mind. And I rarely concern myself with the tabloids.

But back in 2004, in my last month in the UK, following the elections, one British tabloid asked the question many people were thinking:

Please, let there be no sequel….