blended diet

A Parent Perspective: Interview with Serena

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This is my latest interview in an occasional series – A Parent Perspective. I spoke to Serena about her experience raising her son JamJam, who has a rare genetic condition. JamJam has defied the odds but keeping him healthy is complex and Serena is often fighting for him. I hugely admire Serena and I loved hearing how she approaches life with JamJam within her big family.

My son, Ben, is 12 and I knew very little about disability when he was born. My experience of being his mother has been a rapid education in the issues surrounding raising a disabled child. I find it helpful and interesting to read stories about other people with similar experiences and I hope you might too.

How would you describe your family?

We have a big family. Between my husband and I we have eight children – four older girls in their 20s, a son who’s 16, a daughter who’s 13, a five year old son, and JamJam who is four.

I love having a big family. I love for us to be around the table together, hearing about their days. Sometimes I take a step back and listen to the laughter and think, that’s me. I’m the mum to you guys!

Tell us about JamJam.

He is the most chilled of all my children. He lights up the room, laughs and smiles a lot. The minute he hears the beat to some music, he’s dancing. As soon as he hears your voice he’s moving his head. He does trampolining at school and he really enjoys that. He’s happy outside with fresh air on his face. He’s an amazing boy and we love him.

He goes to a fantastic school. It was a battle to get him there because it is out of borough, but we are so happy with everything that they do for him. Because JamJam is blind, he doesn’t have the cues from light and dark perception and his sleeping habits are really erratic. Since being at school his sleep is much improved. He’ll sleep for five hours in a stretch now which is a big difference for us.

Patau syndrome is the official name of his condition, but it’s commonly known as Trisomy 13 – he has three copies of chromosome 13. The prognosis is typically quite bleak – if children survive the pregnancy, they tend to live seven to 10 days. 90% of children die before their first birthday. It was a complete shock when we found out. We had seven healthy children and I come from a really big family where there are no disabilities. I wasn’t worried when I did the amniocentesis. We got the results on 16 August 2017 at 9:35am. It was my son’s 12th birthday so there were lots of his friends in the house up bright and early, wanting breakfast. We were expecting the call and my husband and I went into the kitchen when the phone rang. The geneticist said, ‘I’m really sorry, he’s positive for trisomy 13’. We were stunned. Neither of us said anything for what seemed like ages. We hugged then I went into the toilet and I cried and cried. Then I had to wipe my tears and get on with the party. Our lives changed in that moment.

And then how as the rest of your pregnancy?

We had options. Because this condition is seen as incompatible with life, you have the option to terminate at any point in the pregnancy. They explained that after 22 weeks, they would inject through my abdomen into the baby’s heart to stop it, then contractions would start and I’d give birth. The thought of it was horrendous, like I’d be murdering my child. We were in turmoil and only had weeks to decide what to do because we knew 22 weeks was going to be the cutoff point for us. Also we found out I was pregnant nine months after having a baby, and during the previous delivery I was really unwell and was in theatre for over nine hours as they tried to control a bleed.

What made the difference for me was our faith, because we’re Christians, and then also reaching out to the Trisomy 13 community. Our geneticist and consultant told us things based on the knowledge they had, but we entered a whole new world when we joined the trisomy 13 community and saw that children do live. There are children who are 4, 6, 30 years old with the same condition, and that gave us some hope that our child could be in the 10% that survive beyond their first birthday. We decided to let him write his own story – to give him the chance and deal with whatever life throws at us.

How were you both when he was born?

I was absolutely fine. JamJam had been put under palliative care during my pregnancy and offered comfort care only. We had to battle to have that decision overturned and for him to receive medical intervention. Fortunately we were successful because he wasn’t breathing when he was born and he was resuscitated. He had lots of issues maintaining his blood sugars and needing platelet transfusions. When he was three days old, an ophthalmologist examined him and said he had been born without eyes. Shortly after that we were told he was deaf. He was only in hospital for two weeks and when we got home we did more hearing tests. On the third test, they said that he did have muffled hearing. We prayed about everything. I know his hearing isn’t muffled – the minute you walk into a room, he hears it.

When he was eight months old, I was praying for another miracle for his eyes and 15 minutes after he opened one eye for the first time in his life and there was an eye there. Very small, but it was there. Later that day, he opened the second one – another eye there. No one’s been able to give us an explanation, but he has them. He is our miracle boy, he continues to defy the odds. Of course, it’s tough – he has epilepsy and apnoeas which are fairly frequent. He could be playing and then you notice that he’s quiet, and he’s completely blue and stiff. Then we need to grab the oxygen, try and stimulate him.

He’s completely nil by mouth and PEG-fed. We’ve been meticulous about what we feed him – he has a vegan ketogenic blended diet with lots of fresh, organic vegetables, fruits, seeds and nuts. We were told he would fail to thrive but he’s putting on weight, although making his food is very time consuming. We weigh everything and cook lots of batches of food, cool it down, label it, freeze it, and then it goes so quickly and you’re back to doing it again. I’ll never pretend that I enjoy doing a lot of the things that we have to do, but we do it because we want the best for him.

Do you have any help?

We are very fortunate to have a very good care package with seven nights and four days of support, which is needed. Also he has all his brothers and sisters – even my five year old can recognize what’s happening. He’ll say, ‘Mum, Jam Jam’s having a seizure,’ which is great in one sense, but it’s also quite deflating in another. In emergencies everybody knows what to do. One grabs the oxygen, one’s calling the paramedics, another one’s taking the younger children out the way.

I’m really proud of our children – they’re very compassionate, loving, and tolerant. They’re also very vocal – they’re advocates for JamJam and they speak about issues in society. My children love to debate, expressing their opinions, and it’s amazing. Having JamJam as a brother means they’ve got a level of maturity that otherwise they probably wouldn’t have had.

I guess you’ve unfortunately become really familiar with hospitals.

We’re even familiar with paramedics. Some of them arrive, turn to their colleagues and say, ‘I know JamJam. His mum doesn’t like any shoes on the mat!’ We know the protocols – if JamJam is really unwell he’s going straight to Resus 8 and we’re going to be there for a while, and then we’ll go to intensive care or HDU. Everybody knows him.

The doctors will say, ‘What do you think Serena? You know him best. Has anyone in your group experienced this before? Obviously they are trained, they are the professionals. JamJam is all we have experienced, but it’s good to have a relationship and exchange experiences.

Are there ways that you have changed since having JamJam that you are grateful for, even though it’s been very difficult?

Time is so precious and things that may have seemed really important before have less value now. I’ve learned to really value being around the children. I also try and have one to one time with each of the children. Before, the children would be talking to me and I’d be getting on with something. But now, I’ll pause and actually look and listen, giving them all of me, even if it’s just five minutes. I want all of my children to feel that they are important, to know that their needs, desires, the things they want to do are being supported. I often hear myself saying, ‘One minute, please, I’m just doing this for JamJam.’

My children are all so different. I’ve got one who is incredibly studious with so much drive and ambition. My 13 year old is an actress and I want to ensure she’s able to do the things she wants to. She had an audition when she was eight and we were running late. I had to take JamJam out the car, get him in his chair, he had his NG tube and I was syringe feeding him, rushing with my other son. Her agent called me and screamed down the phone at me and I burst into tears. When I got to the audition they said they were running behind anyway, but all I could do was cry. I felt like I’d let my daughter down. Thankfully she got the job but it was so stressful. You just want to be the best mum you can to every single one of them and meet all of their needs, but it’s really tough.

I think particularly coming from a Caribbean background, a lot of Caribbean women have got to be seen as strong, holding it together and able to cope. But if I’m not managing, I’m going to say. If I feel like crying, I’m going to cry. If I want to take a holiday and leave my children for a while so I can recuperate, that’s what I’m going to do, and I do it all unapologetically.

What are the things which frustrate you, that you feel need to change?

The disparity that I see between families. We go to hospital, and see families who have their nurses or carers there with them, supporting their child. We can’t have that and I find it so frustrating. We see families who have so little. I saw a lady recently who I’ve met in hospital and she’s carrying a 16 year old up and down the stairs in temporary accommodation. It grieves me, it’s so unfair. Not everybody has the support we have. There are parents that need so much more and they’re not getting it. It also makes me very grateful.

I think it makes a huge difference to know that you’re not alone.  There are many people in different situations, but there’s so much that we have in common. When I realised there was a whole Facebook group of people with me, I realized we were not alone. We’ve met so many wonderful people and people we’d never have had the opportunity to speak to.

You can find Serena on Instagram @mum.of.faith

Her book for kids, JamJam Can!, is available to order here

A Parent Perspective: Interview with Amy

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This is my latest interview in an occasional series – A Parent Perspective – with Amy. Amy lives with her family in Cornwall, working as an artist and making beautiful pots. Her daughter, Rosa, has a rare genetic disorder and I really enjoyed talking to Amy about how she has trusted her instincts as they have navigated their lives with Rosa’s life-limiting condition.

My son, Ben, is 12 and I knew very little about disabled people when he was born. My experience of being his mother has been a rapid education in the issues surrounding disability. I find it helpful and interesting to read stories about other people with similar experiences and I hope you might too.

Could you describe your family?

There’s four of us – me and my husband, Gareth (we’ve been together for our entire lives), our daughter Rosa who is 13, and our son Ithan who is 11. Rosa has Canavan disease which is a rare genetic brain disorder and means she needs a lot of help. We live in a lovely, tiny cottage on a river in south Cornwall.

What are Rosa’s favourite things to do?

She likes anything that is a bit shocking, that makes you jump, and things that you build up to. We play lots of games, Kerplunk and board games. She enjoys body noise humour. She likes interaction, being in a group of people and being with other kids, which is important and has been lacking so much over the last couple of years. It’s been really difficult to facilitate because she is very vulnerable and we have had to be horribly cautious for ages.

What impact does her disability have on her day-to-day life?

It affects every aspect of her life. She’s nonverbal, in a wheelchair and doesn’t have very much movement. Rosa’s communication is largely through facial expression. She does things brilliantly at school, but at home she just expects us to know, which is cheeky but fair enough. She’s got a computer at school that she operates with a switch but at home she’d rather we just entertain her, not have to press a button to make it happen. She looks up and smiles for yes, and looks down and doesn’t smile for no. Her condition is progressive and we feel things are getting harder for her and she’s in a fog more often. She’s had more seizures over the last few years which means constant managing, trying to make her as comfortable, involved and happy as possible without overwhelming her.

When did you find out Rosa had this condition?

We had a completely blissful first couple of months of just being in love with our new baby and I felt really good. I started to wonder when she was about three months, but we didn’t talk to anybody until she was seven months old, when it was probably quite obvious to everybody else. I don’t think I wanted to know, and as soon as we talked to professionals it was like the floodgates opened. Everybody wanted to do tests and Rosa was in and out of hospital. You’re in such unfamiliar territory, it’s like being in the midst of a hurricane, just trying to make sense of it. We got her diagnosis very quickly – it was only three months after we’d first talked to our health visitor, and we were lucky because it’s a really rare condition.

We’d always wanted more than one child – we were initially quite frightened to go ahead with another pregnancy but were able to have a CVS test at 11 weeks of pregnancy to rule out Canavans. Ithan is the polar opposite of Rosa. He was feisty from the moment he was conceived, and then he arrived and held his head up, like, ‘Here I am.’ He did everything really early so there was no chance to worry. With Rosa our whole life landscape changed, so to then have this little miracle of normality come along was (both) wonderful and sad.

How has your approach to appointments and professionals changed over the years?

We’ve been quite good at that from the start. We sacked our first paediatrician because we didn’t like his attitude. We felt like he didn’t like children and he never addressed Rosa. His initial examination of her destroyed me. I felt he was so cold and moved her around like she was a thing.

Initially we did all the appointments that came and we were more compliant, but we’ve always resisted medicalising Rosa’s life as much as possible. Some people look the condition up in the book and say we’re going to do this and this without assessing if that’s necessary and weighing up the pros and cons for Rosa. Gareth comes from quite a scientific family and I come from a hippy, intuitive family which makes a good combination. When we first got the diagnosis I was really frightened to know the facts whereas Gareth was doing massive amounts of research. He could then drip feed me the information when I wanted it which worked really well.

It sounds like you had such strong instincts about the kind of parent you were going to be and that advocacy bit of it came naturally.

Yes, I think so. There are experimental treatments going on in the States and we looked into all of that but we felt that if Rosa’s life is going to be short then we want it to be as fun as possible. We don’t want her to spend it in hospital, recovering from surgery which probably won’t make that much difference. We decided at the beginning it was about her quality of life and we’ve got more strict about that. Unless we can see how an appointment is going to benefit Rosa, we try not to do them.

Do you think there’s things about the uniqueness of Rosa that has then affected the way that you’ve been a parent to Ithan?

I know that having Rosa as a sister has hugely affected the way Ithan is compared to his peers. There are so many times when we’re going to do something and then we can’t because of Rosa. He’s so good about it and adaptable. He’s very tolerant of Rosa needing a lot of care and attention. Gareth and I work in our business together, at home, so one or both of us is always around and I hope Ithan feels there’s enough attention for him. We try to make the most of good days and seeing the relationship between Rosa and Ithan is precious.

The last few years we’ve started intentionally doing more things separately with the kids. We take turns taking Ithan camping, because Rosa loves camping but our camper van has got too small for us all. It’s important that Ithan can have some undivided attention. For years we took Rosa’s chair across the moor but now she’s big and it’s bumpy. Sometimes you have to recognise there are limits to what you can do, and Rosa would enjoy juggling at home more than dancing across the moor in the weather.

Does Rosa enjoy school?

It’s been really patchy how much Rosa’s been at school because of Covid, and we’re also in the middle of a massive hellish battle with the council about transport. It’s so frustrating and emotionally exhausting because it should be simple. Rosa’s had a taxi to school for years. It’s a brilliant school which she’s been going to since she was three, and she loves it. She had a scary medical event in July when she stopped breathing and had a cardiac arrest out of the blue. She is now fine but transport stopped because they said the driver and assistant weren’t qualified to do it. I’m arranging the training for them but the council keep moving the goalposts.

A school day is very short anyway, in terms of getting work done. We’re both self employed and driving Rosa to school, or her not going to school, has an impact on the wellbeing of our family. Ithan’s school is in the opposite direction and we’ve only got one vehicle, so it’s all juggling while trying to run a business.

Do you have help from carers?

Not enough. We have one carer who brings toys and plays with Rosa for a few hours after school. It’s okay if one of us is here with her, and it’s better than having nobody, but it’s not a great help.

We had more help when Rosa was little. My brother used to work with Rosa and that was great. We had Homecare for some years which was mostly helpful although it was awkward to make changes, and you didn’t always know who was coming. Then there were cuts, and they decided that Rosa wasn’t disabled enough and we lost 30 hours a month of help, which made a big difference. Now Rosa is so big, it feels difficult to get anybody in who can be properly helpful because we don’t have any hoisting or any way of getting her upstairs apart from carrying her.

How has Rosa’s feeding has changed over time?

For the first few days she had trouble feeding, and then she was brilliant at breastfeeding and didn’t want to stop. She was feeding constantly until she was nearly two, and she used to love eating. They were telling us she needed to have a gastrostomy* and we were saying she doesn’t. She was gorgeous and chubby. It started to get more difficult when she was about six. She was aspirating more and it got harder to keep her hydrated when she was poorly. Gradually she was enjoying eating less, finding it more difficult and taking longer. She had a nasogastric tube for a bit, after she’d been ill, and that’s when we started supplementing with formula. We decided it was time to get a gastrostomy, which was a surprisingly hard decision but it felt like Rosa had said, ‘I don’t want to do this anymore, it’s too hard.’ She was eight when she had a gastrostomy and afterwards she didn’t want to eat anymore. Even birthday cake and ice cream.

We started doing blended food* almost as soon as she had her gastrostomy. Our previous paediatrician had told us about it. Rosa’s got a really tiny tummy capacity so we have continued to use formula as well. I blend a lot of her food with formula and when she’s at school they feed her formula, because it’s straightforward. Now she also has a pump feed at night. It was another thing that I was resistant to, because I feel like your tummy should be able to rest when you’re sleeping, but there’s always a bit of give and take – a tug of what your instincts say and what your child needs. Sometimes she just has water in the pump because milk is just too much, and sometimes anything is too much. She has gained weight, which is brilliant for her, but a nightmare for us because we’re still carrying her around the cottage. She’s still really slight and nowhere near the size of a typical 13 year old girl, but at least she now has some reserve.

Terms: *Gastrostomy – feeding tube through abdomen into the stomach

*Blended food/diet – liquidised food put through a feeding tube

You can find Amy on Instagram, Facebook and her blog is here.

Having a break – the guilt of ‘respite’

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For any parent of a disabled child, the subject of respite is a bit fraught. Often because accessing any is difficult, and will have involved tricky conversations/numerous phone calls with various professionals. Partly because the logistics of organising it and physically getting the child there with everything they require are onerous.

But mainly because it’s a double-edged sword. On the one hand we would really like a break. On the other hand we feel guilty for wanting a break. We are on the knife-edge of knowing that the respite place we have carefully considered is able to take care of our child, but also thinking that no-one is going to be able to take care of them properly.

Almost two years after we were first referred for respite provision, Ben has just had his first overnight stay without us. The somewhat casual timescale allowed us time to get used to the idea, due mainly to the first hospice refusing to feed Ben pureed food so us (and yes, I mean us, social services having still not managed to assess Ben) having to find a different place. We agreed to the new referral, then went for a visit, then spent a couple of hours going through aspects of Ben’s care plan, and then stayed there with him for a weekend, then the time came for him to stay there himself.

It’s a nice place. It’s run by nurses, so feels quite medical, but that means they are totally on top of medication and not at all intimidated by disability. It’s purpose-built building with lots of space, bedrooms opening on to gardens, a huge room for craft, fun and reading. Loads of books and friendly people floating around doing interesting things. There are other kids and their siblings, volunteers making bugs and Gruffalos.

To give some context, I am generally quite relaxed about being separated from my children. We are lucky enough to have lots of family in London who are willing to look after our kids. For the first three years or so of Ben’s life he spent one night a week with my mum, he’s spent loads of weekend with his other grandparents. Max has had ‘sleepovers’ of up to five days with grandparents and my sister and her partner. Molly is somewhat testing the model by being more dedicated to breastfeeding than I would ideally like, but at some point we’ll manage to offload her too. But of course, these people are all in our family. And as Ben has got longer and heavier, and the kit he needs has got larger, it’s got trickier for him to stay anywhere that isn’t our home.

We have therefore shifted the model so James and I (perhaps with a child or two) can go away, leaving Ben in our house with various permutations of carers and family. We realise how fortunate we are to be able to do this.

What the respite hospice offers is an opportunity for us to stay at home and for Ben to stay elsewhere, allowing us to be one child down (which with three of them is a welcome release of intensity), spend more time with the other two, and perhaps get some of the stuff done that we have been planning to do for months but never have time to (e.g. unpack boxes from our house move 2.5 months ago, or actually tidy up our tip of a house). I am keen on this idea.

Except that it also involves Ben staying somewhere else without us or any other family, which makes me feel guilty and nervous.

On the morning of Ben’s solo stay we packed up everything he needed (a full car of stuff) and James and a carer set off. I used Molly as a convenient excuse to not be the one to do the drop off. I called the hospice to say they were on the way, and it transpired that there had been some administrative confusion that meant they weren’t expecting Ben until that afternoon. The idea that Ben was about to arrive for his first stay without us, and they weren’t expecting him, that they weren’t all standing around anticipating the arrival of Ben, made me feel so sad and unsure. Should I call James and get them to turn back? The journey can take up to an hour so that would mean spending most of the day faffing around which would be the exact opposite of respite. As I burst into tears, the nurse said no, they would make it work.

When James got there it was actually okay, and Ben seemed alright, and by the time James and our carer left he was happily entertained and content. We spent the weekend with Max and Molly, and realised that looking after two kids is much easier that looking after three but still pretty relentless which was quite a helpful distraction. Max burst into tears on three separate occasions because Ben wasn’t there.

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Then we went out for supper to celebrate our 11th wedding anniversary, and appreciated that organising babysitting for two non-disabled kids is really straightforward. We ate delicious food, drank too many drinks, faded far too early, and came home to Molly screaming in the babysitters’ face. We had called the hospice and they said Ben was okay.

The following day we woke up to a house that only had our kids in it and us. Ben sleeps badly, and we’re lucky to have nightcarers who get up with him during the night and help us in the morning. We also have day carers almost every day which makes our family life possible. But the flipside of having a lot of help is that there is almost always someone in our house. It is a luxury to wake up and potter around in a dressing gown with only Weetabix for kids to think about.

We went for lunch, where we were just about able to have actual conversations with other adults, at tables with benches that wouldn’t accommodate wheelchairs easily. I had fun. But we were with family, and I felt bad that Ben wasn’t there. Even though we probably wouldn’t have gone for the lunch at all if Ben had been, partly because of the wheelchair, partly because trying to go for lunch with all three of our kids and actually expecting to talk to anyone is an absolutely ridiculous idea. We called again and Ben was apparently happy.

When James went to collect Ben that afternoon everything was okay. He seemed relaxed. There hadn’t been any disasters. When Ben got back home and saw me, Max and Molly he was totally thrilled. Max was so happy to have Ben back, equilibrium had been restored. Max was even content to not be able to watch his TV programmes because Ben doesn’t like them.

It was, by all measures, a success. Ben did fun stuff that he wouldn’t have done at home. Max and Molly got more of our attention, James and I had a bit of a break (it’s all relative).

So why do I feel so guilty about it? It reminds me a bit of Ben’s first week at nursery, when he was almost one. I dropped him off and called James on the way out in tears, saying I would never be able to go back to work because we couldn’t possibly leave Ben at nursery… Am I just further along the continuum of internal conflict that starts at angsting about whether kids should go to nursery or have a nanny (or any childcare at all), and ends at going away for a week with no kids? Or am I just trying to justify something that’s not fair on Ben?

I don’t think there’s a right answer, but for now I’m shattered and have a to-do list that stretches over two A4 pages and Ben was happy during this last stay, so we’ll crack on (as Max would say) and hope we’re doing the right thing.

Or at least not doing the wrong thing.

Feeding Ben Food

/ jess / 4 Comments

Ben can’t eat or drink. He tried really hard to learn and we all spent a lot of time on it for 18 months but by age two he really wasn’t enjoying it. He got annoyed at the sight of a spoon and the amount he was eating was tailing off.

Drinking had been a problem right from the beginning. His dysphagia (difficulty swallowing) meant he found sucking from a bottle really difficult – if the automatic reflex to co-ordinate sucking, swallowing and breathing is messed up, it is incredibly hard to learn. The human anatomy at the back of the throat is an awful design and Ben just couldn’t get the hang of it. We spent hours trying to feed him by bottle, and later by cup but it was never enough and he was discharged from hospital with a nasogastric tube which we put milk through (the tube went up through his nose and then down in to his tummy).

At just over four months we started weaning in the hope that eating thicker textures would be easier than drinking and be more likely to stay down in his tummy. This was also hard work for Ben and he did incredibly well given the difficulties but he never got close to eating enough food to grow. Meanwhile he had constant and painful gastro-oesophageal reflux.

So at six months old Ben had a PEG inserted in to his tummy, allowing us to give milk through a tube straight in to his stomach. When he was two this was changed to a button.

If you start out from the position that you have a small child and they have to have a tube inserted in to their tummy, which means even when you have given them a bath and they are lying on a towel all perfect and clean they will still have a tube dangling from their abdomen, this might be upsetting. Which it was in some ways. But if you start from the position that your child is unable to feed and you have spent six months putting milk through a tube in their nose which everyone can see, and keeps falling off/out, and their cheek under the sticky plaster is red raw, and when the tube needs replacing you have to get someone (sometimes your poor neighbour) to bind your screaming child in a towel and hold them down while you push a tube up their nose and down their throat, and every time you feed them you have to do a pH test to check the tube is still in their tummy and you aren’t about to pour milk in to their lungs… if you find yourself in that position, then a permanent tube in their tummy seems like a great idea.

James and I have fond memories of a holiday in Scotland when Ben was 18 months old when he could eat half a yoghurt pot for lunch. That was the highpoint of his eating and once we returned to London the combination of physical difficulty and chronic reflux meant he was less and less keen to eat food. To be honest, we were all weary. There are only so many hours you can spend mixing various mashed and pureed foods with baby rice and spooning them into an unwilling child before you feel there are better ways to spend time. Eventually we got to the point of not offering Ben oral food at all.

That gastrostomy tube is a lifeline – it is the reason that Ben is thriving and growing. It represents a choice to spend time reading books and enjoying ourselves rather than trying for hours to eat enough food and drink enough fluid and the inevitable chest infections that would result.

So for the first three years of his life, Ben was largely fed milk – various hypoallergenic, cows-milk-free and enhanced formulas that began to arrive in big boxes every month. As far as dieticians and general medical opinion is concerned, once a child has a tube they are then fed special milk. So on the one hand you have a typical four year old who eats some cereal, a banana, some chicken and maybe a cake. On the other hand you have a tube-fed four year old who is supposed to have 240ml Nutrini Energy milk for breakfast, 240ml Nutrini Energy milk for lunch and 240ml Nutrini Energy milk for supper.

A few years ago I came across ‘blended diet‘ (BD) which essentially means pureeing food with enough liquid to be able to push it through the gastrostomy tube. I am a natural law-abider (the kind of person who feels uncomfortable going in to a pub to use the loo if I haven’t bought a drink, who scrupulously observes any and every queue) and so having found an academic journal article that suggested children had experienced less reflux and eaten more while being fed puree rather than milk, I approached each of our doctors and asked their view before I started. They were generally a bit bemused but didn’t tell me not to. We started putting Ella’s Kitchen baby food pouches through Ben’s gastrostomy tube.

It’s not a complicated idea – we followed principles similar to when you are weaning a baby. We gradually made more complicated purees and replaced quantities of milk for boluses of puree. Our dietician made clear that she could not advocate this type of feeding (she is prevented from doing so by her professional organisation) but was happy to discuss principles with me. She analysed our recipes to see how much protein, carbs etc Ben was getting and suggested supplements.

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Ben is now fed entirely puree. Instead of being pumped full of high calorie milk with a 12-month shelf life he is fed a bespoke recipe of roast chicken, homemade chicken stock, tahini and avocado whizzed up in a high-speed, super-powered (obscenely expensive) blender. Since we have been doing this he vomits less, has fewer reflux symptoms and has been putting on weight (albeit slowly, but that’s always been the case). We add calorie and vitamin supplements to the blends. Doctors comment on how well he looks and how sensible an idea this is.

Through this process, I have rediscovered some of the mothering instinct that should be part of feeding your child. There is no pleasure in hooking up milk to a pump, but there is real and tangible satisfaction to be gained in roasting a chicken, making stock and feeding it to your child. There is enormous joy to be found in buying blueberries in the morning and giving them to your child in the afternoon; to seeing your child grow as a result of the food you have made with your hands even if it doesn’t arrive in their tummy via their mouth.

Health professionals (mainly dieticians and nurses) are concerned about this method of feeding – they are apparently worried the tube will get blocked (this has never happened to us), that there are problems with food hygiene (which the rest of the population manages when feeding their kids). They are uncomfortable that you can’t be sure how many calories are in blended foods. These concerns are such that our nearest respite centre refuses to give children puree via gastrostomy, and therefore Ben can’t stay there without us being there to feed him (which with the best will in the world, is not exactly respite).

It seems to me that a model of care where children automatically have long-life milk for every meal is better suited to those analysing calorie requirements and setting up pumps than it is to the recipient. I resent the idea that most parents feed their children what they want, with some public health encouragement to maximise vegetables, but us feeding Ben kale and quinoa rather than milk full of maltodextrin is somehow rogue. The world is upside-down when goody-two-shoes-Jess is seen as a rebel.

We all make parenting decisions for our kids. Our choice is to feed our son actual food.