Did I mention the waves of not-copingness?
We've had a letter from the mortgage people today, saying that we ARE still liable for the mortgage. Technically, this is true. However, once the house is sold, any credit or deficit gets wound up in the bankcruptcy, so actually, it's NOT true.
If that makes sense?
Anyway. It was a rather officiously worded letter and it knocked us both for six.
Leo has been crying all day. Or at least, it seems like it. B and I have both been doing our fair share, too. Sometimes it all gets too much.
Leo has also developed a really yackky discharge from his right eye. I am hoping it isn't something horrible he picked up from crawling around the floor in the hospital waiting room yesterday whilst B chatted to his mother.
Oh, yes, B's mother.
After a couple of weeks of increasingly bonkers text messages, we decided to confront the issue. We met her at the hospital yesterday at a time of our choosing and she got to see Leo and meet Eleanor. She was offensively tactile with me, which I bore with gritted teeth rather than make a scene; and she didn't bring up any of the awkward subjects that we didn't want to discuss, either. Clearly we are all going to ignore what happened and move swiftly on. She thinks.
However, she let Leo crawl around on the floor. Also, she went in to what I can only describe as 'Dickensian Liverpudlian Mode', which involved much wringing of hands and repetition of phrases such as 'Ooooooh, the poor little mite' and 'Awwwww, the poor little thing ....'. I felt that if she had been wearing an apron, she'd have been throwing it over her head and wailing. It took a huge effort on my part not to poke her in the eye.
Being a good Liverpudlian, she will probably start a public appeal, based in cloying sentiment.
'Bring Little Eleanor Home To Merseyside' or 'She Needs To Be With Her Family ...'. The tune will, obviously, be 'Ferry Across The Mersey'; and Gerry and the Pacemakers and Cilla Black will be wheeled out to do a piece in The Echo about their horrible experiences of Special Care Baby Units outside the city. There will be badges, flags on sticks to put in your garden and car stickers. There will be a momentary flood of interest and then the public gaze will move on to the next footballer to break someone's nose on a night out; and that will be that.
Eleanor is a lot better. Her lungs are clear. They have taken her off the antibiotics and the drip; and the canula is out completely. This morning she took most of a whole bottle, sucking. This is an ENORMOUS step towards her coming home. They were going to alternate tube feeds and sucking feeds today so that she doesn't get too tired. And then move on to full sucking feeds tomorrow or the next day. We are not sure whether she will be able to breastfeed - it requires a stronger suck, which might cause her breathing problems. But I am expressing with my electric pump like mad (who knew you could milk both your boobs at once?) and we can always freeze or refrigerate the stuff and give it to her by bottle.
B is working tomorrow and Leo is at nursery. I don't think I am going to go to the hospital by myself - it's quite a long drive and I am still getting very tired in the afternoons. On Wednesday we have arranged to borrow a Lovely Friend's trailer (and possibly the Lovely Friend, too) and get the rest of the stuff out of the old house. And then the Bastard Mortgage People can have the keys back and it will all be done.
I am exhausted. B is exhausted. We are both literally running on empty and it is sheer luck that up until today we have each had a miniscule amount in reserve at alternate times to help each other. That's gone now. We are coping somehow. And we are putting on a cheery face for the outside world. But neither of us know quite how and I suspect that inside, he is screaming as loudly as I am.