Two years on from the Foxglove Poisoning

Two years. Two years have passed since Esme’s Adventure with Foxgloves. Today is a similar sort of day, it’s warm and dry, just the sort of day for running around the fields catching falling leaves (if you catch one before it hits the floor you get to make a wish), but today I’m staying in. 

I might wander into the garden later, let the wind blow away the cobwebs, but for now I’m content on this side of the window. Watching the bluetits squabble over the bird feeder, and the red kite get tossed this way and that in the gusty sky. 

Today is the day that I can’t pretend. I can’t pretend that I don’t hold a deep-seated fear. I can’t pretend that I don’t sometimes look at Esme and think, “What if..?” 

I have been so careful not to fall into the dangerous trap of overprotectiveness. It would be a false-safety to never let her learn that the world is not all soft edges. She is hardy and sensible and brave. 

Her younger brother is now older than Esme was when she ate those Foxglove leaves. It almost feels like an invisible threshold has passed. I have so many blessings to count. So very many, but today it is ok to just sit and wallow for a while. 

We don’t take enough time to wallow. Someone always has it worse. We can always look for the good, but ignoring pain just lets it sneak up on you when you’re not looking. I still cannot listen to the song that was playing in Intensive Care without tears. It came on the radio the other day. It didn’t know better, it wasn’t aware that it shouldn’t have. Oh the tears. Not even crying, no heaving sobs, or gulping breaths, just a silent river of tears that have to take their course and wend their way. 

Two years ago Esme ate Foxglove leaves and became incredibly ill. Today she is healthy and happy with a head full of golden curls and an impish grin. 

Just as I was frustrated two years ago about the lack of meaning in such a horrible accident, I am frustrated now by the same. There is no greater meaning when bad things happen. There is no personal growth. I have not learned and become a better person for it. 

But, that doesn’t mean you can’t create meaning. People shared Esme’s story and maybe one day it will stop another accident happening. I have learned not to fight against my anger and pain, but to let it wash over me. I’d prefer not to have the anger and pain, but hey, you can’t have everything, and they are different with time added to the mix. Those ripples in the pond are becoming smaller with greater gaps in between. 

The world keeps turning, children keep doing ridiculously stupid things, we keep doing our best. 

And the happiness? The happiness is in the little moments. Morning elbow drops from small people, feeding the birds, making wishes on oak leaves. 

Today’s wish will be for more small happinesses. You can keep your flashy ecstasies, I’ll take running through sheets hanging on a line, or watching TV cuddled in front of a roaring fire, or looking for shells on a beach over your big stuff. 

Give me small moments, and give me lots of them, and you can have your occasional river of tears. 


The Foxgloves Return


It’s been a while since I’ve posted about Foxgloves. But today I went for a walk in the field where this blog all began with Esme’s Adventure with Foxgloves.

The foxgloves are out in force. Even more so than last year. They’re everywhere and they’re beautiful.

I thought I’d reached a point of coping with it all. I make jokes. I’m flippant. 

Sometimes people comment about how relaxed I am about it. I’m not. Beneath the surface I’m traumatised and frightened. The What-Ifs still haunt me. But less often than before.

This morning has made me somber.

Esme was with me on the wander. I held her hand and pointed at the flowers.

“Can I touch them?” I asked her.

“Yes.” She said, “Beautiful flowers.”

“Beautiful flowers, but they make you very sick. Don’t touch.” She nodded as though she understood. 

We came to another clump, “Can I touch these ones?”

“Yes.” She said firmly.

“No,” I repeated, “They make you sick. Ouch. Don’t touch.”

She nodded again.

Every time I asked if I could touch them, she said yes, and I despaired.

But she’s still only two. My tiny idiot is still small.

I’ve kept on top of the encroaching foxgloves in the garden. It hasn’t been easy. But they’re under my control now.

I don’t want to control nature. I don’t want to control the beautiful wildflowers in the field. I don’t want the bumble bees to stop bumbling into them. I don’t want the caterpillars to move on. I want it all to carry on as it did before it changed my world.

I want my tiny idiot to stick to her evolutionary programming that tells us not to eat things that taste that bitter.

But she’s decided to take a different path, and I’m going to have to parent the child in front of me.

As for her, she is great. She’s wonderful and perfect and infuriating.

It’s a bank holiday weekend, and we’re going to spend it outside, as so many will.

Can I just make one small request? Could you have one quick double check around the garden if you do have small children. Just a casual glance. 

If you’re planting foxgloves, I don’t blame you, they’re gorgeous, then just take a moment to think about putting them somewhere small children can’t get to them. 

Remind your children not to eat things they find outside. Don’t assume they remember you saying it last year, like I did.

Being rational and reasonable doesn’t mean avoiding all the risks.

Spring has well and truly sprung, and for the first time, after a long and water-logged winter, we are heading back out into the garden.

I am going to be honest and say it doesn’t feel as safe as it did. I think the children are now utterly sick of my quick reminders not to eat anything, or to let anyone else eat anything, or to tell me if they think someone might have eaten anything, or or or…

I’ve spent a bit of time checking there’s nothing immediately deadly where the children will play, but I can’t quite seem to be able to get rid of the niggling doubt that I’ve missed something.

I won’t be planting potatoes this year, or rhubarb. There won’t be any dangerous leaves in my vegetable patch. Not yet. Not until she’s bigger.

I know that fear stems from failing to spot the danger when it happened. I know that I was too blasé about the likelihood of any of the children eating a poisonous plant. Or perhaps I was right to be blasé and actually we are just a strange anomaly.

All parenting is risk assessment. We look at how likely a bad thing happening is, we weigh that against the benefits of doing things and the negatives of missing out. 

I’m sure the risk of me crashing whilst driving the kids to school this morning, far outweigh the risks of any of the children coming to harm playing in the garden. But the garden makes me feel more anxious, for obvious reasons.

In a car you reduce risk by driving sensibly, using appropriate child seats, there are ways to minimise risk.

And that’s all you can do. Minimise risk and then let your children live.

I keep telling myself that once Esme is a vaguely rational human, she will understand, and the fear will go. But until then I want to keep her safe.

The urge to strap her into a swing or a chair is sometimes strong. I want to wrap her up in cotton wool. For the selfless reason of keeping her safe, and for the selfish reason, that I want freedom from the fear.

But then she’d miss out. She wouldn’t get to feel the warm grass on her bare feet in the summer. She wouldn’t get to lie on her back and look for monsters in the clouds. She wouldn’t get to watch snails unfurl, or worms wiggle, or hunt for grasshoppers and watch them leap. She wouldn’t get to touch and feel and enjoy the world. Not until she was rational. Then maybe she’d be too rational to enjoy it at all.

How many two year olds worry about the consequences of digging in mud? How many adults wouldn’t bother because they’d have to clean up?

I won’t be having Foxgloves in the garden any time soon. But I will one day. The bumble bees like them, and I like bumble bees.

One day Esme will be sensible, but if she gets there by being restricted, if she gets there by not experiencing as much, then I’ve failed her. I’m not going to fail her again.

Which means for now I’ll have to watch her that little bit closer. I’ll be that little bit less comfortable. Because to choose not to let her live would be to take the wrong lesson from her experience. It would be taking a meaning from her hurt, that would hurt her more.

And that can only be a bad thing.


When we were in Bristol not so long ago, after a late night, feeling a bit sleepy, we decided to go out for a lovely meal.

On the way to that lovely meal, I saw a placard up in someone’s garden.


That’s nice, I thought, in my tired state.

Of course that’s not really what it said. It said “TIRED DOCTORS MAKE MISTAKES”. 

I’d made a mistake because I was tired.

Luckily I wasn’t responsible for looking after the lives of real people whilst I was tired. Luckily the consequence of my minor mistake was a chuckle, not someone’s health.

I decided, as much as I’d really like tired doctors to make muskrats, I’d much prefer awake doctors keeping people alive and well.

The Problem with Counting Your Blessings

The point of counting your blessings is to remind yourself of all the good things that it’s easy to take for granted.

But I think there’s a tendency to look at broad generalisations, and that takes away the poignancy, and misses the point.

I can be grateful for my loving family. I can see that I’m really lucky to have my loving husband and my brilliant children.

But that’s easily said and just as easily dismissed, so I don’t get to linger on the joys that those things bring.

Of course it’s difficult to be grateful when the baby is ill and grizzly, I’ve got a hideous cold, someone’s just left their Lego out, and I’ve trodden on it, or I’ve just had a call to say Andy needs to stay late for a meeting, when I’ve been holding on to my last shred of sanity by my fingertips.

But there are still plenty of moments. Not the big all-encompassing “I’m glad I have my husband”, but the smaller, more valuable, “I was just thinking I’d forgotten to get some milk, and would have to go out again, when Andy walked through the door with some”.

I’m glad I have my baby, Ru, but actually, that moment this morning, after a rough and grizzly night, when he smiled up at me and cuddled in, that was bloody lovely.

I can be grateful for my children.

Or I can notice that moment when Polly (6) told Oscar (10), that whilst she couldn’t give him a piggy-back now (because he is so much bigger than her) when they are both very old, she will give him a piggy back then, because she’d seen how people get smaller as they get older, so hoped they’d reach a time when it evened out.

If you ever see an 85 year old giving an 89 year old a piggy-back, you now know why.

Or when Esme (2) decided to line up all her animals so they were all facing her, then jumped up with a panicked look, ran to me and said, pointing at the menagerie, “They look me!”

As though she was being surprisingly stalked, and had no idea why any of them should be looking at her.

“They look me” indeed.

Or when my eldest, Sam, just throws me one of his smiles.

They’re good things to count. Moments in time that deserved to be noticed and picked out and remembered.

The week before Esme had her adventure with foxgloves, I’d put a post up on Facebook about happiness.

We’re all guilty of putting smug, trite crap out there sometimes. I put my hands up.

Here’s what I posted:-

So yesterday I was listening to the box set (is it a box set for radio shows?) of Cabin Pressure, with Ru on my knee and Es busily undoing my daily good work of putting it all away.

We got to a bit where Arthur is describing how happiness isn’t sitting on a moonlit beach with your loved one, because in those moments you’re always worrying it’ll soon be over. Happiness is jumping into a bath that’s exactly the right temperature, and going “ooh”, or throwing an apple back and forth between your hands until you reach a state of bliss.

Douglas starts humming “I’m busy doing nothing”, and they all start singing it, and so did I.

Ru looked up at me in surprise and burst out laughing.

Es stopped what she was doing to come and laugh at Ru, and we all just sat there for a good minute, laughing at each other.

And I thought, “right now I’m really happy”.

I’m writing this not in some smug sense of “my life is perfect”, but as a reminder not to murder either of them today for only letting me have two hours’ sleep last night.

Hopefully they’ll live out the day and we can have more of our simpleton moments.”

Little did I know that just a few short days later, I would be facing what we faced.

Little did I know how fragile and small that happiness would seem a week later. How I would mock myself for being happy when I didn’t know what was to come. How stupid I seemed. How arrogant.

But even in that week, when Esme ate foxglove leaves, and ended up in intensive care, there were moments.

The time when I showed her a picture of Polly and Oscar, and told her it was a picture of Esme and Ru, and she spoke for the first time, because she couldn’t resist correcting me.

The day before we were finally allowed to go home, when she stood up in her cot, stole the stethoscope, that had been left on the end all week, and grinned at me with mischief in her eyes.

The week before, that stethoscope moment would have disappeared in the mix, but that week it was a headliner.

Sometimes it seems like there’s nothing. There are no little moments to be grateful for. But there always there.

When things get really bad, they hide in the little things. A stranger noticing you’ve only got a few bits of shopping and insisting you go in front of them at the checkout. Stopping to look at an iridescent beetle and the way it shines as it scuttles. The rain stopping for the 2 minutes it takes you to get to the door (even if it poured on you when going out in the first place).

When we were still waiting for the all clear for Esme, I had a bad day one morning taking the older kids to school. It wasn’t terrible. It was just bad.

It was horrible weather. It was one of those mornings when everything seems to take forever. No one’s shoes were where they left them. No one’s bags had what they needed. It was all messy and disorganised before we’d even left the house.

It was a gray day. I was in a gray mood. Everyone was bickering.

I dropped the first two at their school, and then was carrying on to drop off the eldest at college.

It was my right of way, so I drove, but a skip-lorry driver decided that I should have let him out, and gestured unpleasantly at me.

I was surprised, and whilst my son was asking what the man’s problem was, I then spotted the speed camera. I didn’t think I was speeding, but I’d been trying to get out of the way of the lorry as quickly as I could, so it was possible. So I worried about that, and I worried about my son seeing horribleness, and I worried about everything.

It wasn’t a terrible day. Compared to a couple of weeks earlier it was a walk in the park, but for some reason I couldn’t shake off this feeling of uselessness, hopelessness, grayness.

I dropped Sam at college and turned around to go back home with the two littlies.

Everything was bad.

Then I thought about how it wasn’t bad. It was barely an irritation. What was bad was in me. I was filtering the world.

On my way back something had changed. It was like all the lights had been changed from red to green. People kept smiling. Or rather, I noticed that people were smiling.

Not everyone, far from everyone, it was 9am on a weekday. That doesn’t make everyone smile.

I put the Radio on, and they played Bat out of Hell, by Meatloaf. I sang along. Loudly. And as I passed a white van coming the other way I saw he was singing too.

And I smiled.

Because that was one of those little moments.

So I have lots of things to be thankful for. One of which is “strangers who rock out to Meatloaf at just the right moment”.

We can’t all be positive all the time. We shouldn’t be. That should be the reserve of American Chat Show Hosts and not us mere mortals.

But don’t miss those good bits. Notice them. Notice more. If you realise you haven’t seen any lately, get a top up. Look at something closely. Notice a cloud looks like a turtle with a hat on. Overhear a ridiculous conversation.

It’s why people like cat pictures on the Internet. They’re looking for those moments that make them smile. They’re hoping someone else can manufacture them.

But it’s much better when it’s your cat that falls off the back of the sofa.

We’re all made up of our own moments. Enjoy them.

If ignorance were more socially acceptable perhaps we’d all be a lot more knowledgeable

I can’t always talk about foxgloves. In fact I didn’t really mean to start a blog. I wrote an article. An article that was important to me. That I needed to share. That I wanted the world to know about.

Or at least the parts of the world with Foxgloves in them.

And then I found I’d started a blog, sort of accidentally. It was a quick way to share information.

Before I knew it another article appeared. It was linked to the first. It was about the trauma. It fitted.

Now for me it’s only the first that needs saying. The extra bits, the continuations, they’re just the conversation behind the big neon sign of what happened.

I won’t always talk about foxgloves.

But I’m going to today. I’ve had so many responses from the tens of thousands of people who viewed my blog in the 4 days since I started typing.

They’ve slipped neatly into three categories
There are the, “Everyone knows this. Why say it?” People. There aren’t many of these. They know about poisonous plants. They can list many common or garden hazards. They are knowledgeable on the subject.

But they’re wrong.

Not in a horrible way. In a lovely way. They believe that because they know something, that everyone else does.

It makes me think that maybe we should sometimes check on our general knowledge base. Because there’re lots of things I don’t know (like how to set up an aesthetically pleasing blog – I suspect the answer is “don’t be lazy and do it all on your iPhone, turn on the damn computer”), but it’s not fun admitting that.

If ignorance were more socially acceptable perhaps we’d all be a lot more knowledgeable.

Sounds wise doesn’t it?

Back to my categories. The second group, larger than the first, maybe a third of people who messaged me, didn’t have a clue. They had no idea that foxgloves were poisonous.

The lack of knowledge frightened them. Not the foxgloves themselves, just the fact that they maybe had them in the garden, in close proximity to a small child, and had no inkling that there was any kind of hazard present.

The third, and largest group, knew that foxgloves were poisonous, but had no idea how dangerous they were. They thought that they would maybe cause some nausea.

And then of course there were those who don’t get a category of their own, who felt that I should have explained about all poisonous plants. Since foxgloves alone isn’t dealing with the issue. Of course they are absolutely right that foxgloves are not the only dangerous plant in the garden.

I assure this lot that the second I have first-hand experience of this, I shall blog about it. The way Esme’s going, she’d be happy to oblige, but I hope it’s ok that I do my utmost to stop her.

Because I’m not just talking about poisonous plants. I’m talking about my daughter. I’m talking about the days when I didn’t know if she would ever wake up again.

But use this opportunity to embrace your ignorance! There’s a great website called The Poison Garden.

Study it. It’s brilliant. And then don’t panic. Just file it away for if you ever need it.

Or visit them in Alnwick and hear their stories whilst they show you the plants. I think my children need to go.

I also think that Foxgloves have a very specific draw to children. They’re tactile. They’re fuzzy. The flowers are little hats, or fit perfectly on fingers. They grow at child-height. They’re abundant in the summer, when you’re out in the garden. They’re beautiful.

All in all they’re a bit of a perfect storm.

So why don’t poisonings happen more often?

Because most children, no matter how young, are clever enough to stop eating nasty things.

I keep hearing the, “why bother?” Question though.

Because it’s the question I struggled with for three months before posting.

And the answer always comes back to, if this is very rare, that doesn’t mean it will never happen again.

If it happened again, and the parent didn’t know, because we thought they knew, so we didn’t tell them, then that would be the wrong decision.

I try not to think about the hypotheticals of what not knowing may have meant to Esme.

That way bad thoughts lie.

Dealing with the Aftermath

When you’re trundling along, then your world is turned upside down, how do you learn to trundle again?

I’m not a psychologist of any kind. I have no great insight or magic cures. In fact I’m right in the middle of trying to work this out for myself right now.

So think of this more as musings than a How To guide.

In the week when Esme got sick, I got angry.

Of course I was sad. I was stressed. I was waiting for the worst to happen. But I was also very angry that what had happened was so pointless.

I was angry with myself for not protecting her.

I was angry with the fact that there was no magical cure.

I was angry that I was powerless.

When you’re angry and you have nothing to blame, the easiest thing is to turn it inwards.

I couldn’t be angry at the foxglove. I couldn’t be angry at a just-turned-2 year old who liked eating things. I couldn’t be angry at the hospital who were doing everything in their power. There was no focus.

I could be angry at myself for not reminding the older children that morning of the dangers of plants. I could be angry at myself for not checking where they were sitting for foxgloves. I could be angry at myself for not watching them every second. I could be angry at myself for not seeing it happen when it happened. I could be angry at myself for not getting to a hospital the second she’d eaten them. I could be angry at myself for being so helpless.

But none of it was helpful.

Anger is a normal and natural reaction to something bad happening. In the short term it can fuel you. It can keep you going when you’re exhausted. It can keep you putting one foot in front of the other when you are so tired.

But there comes a point where anger drains you. Where all it does is takes your energy away from the good things.

There comes a point where you have to let it go.

But how?

People say things happen for a reason. I don’t believe this. I’ve never believed this. Things happen. Full stop. And then you have to get on with your life and try to deal with what happened.

People tell themselves stories. They say “if this bad thing hadn’t happened, then it wouldn’t have led to this good thing”.

Stories genuinely help. They are in our control. We can decide on the story.

This blog is part of my story.

At first I thought everyone knew foxgloves were dangerous, so I couldn’t help the world by spreading the word.

But we met many medical professionals who didn’t know. Many friends who admitted in the same situation they would never have been able to suggest a plant to doctors.

So maybe I could create a point, create a purpose. Maybe Esme’s bad experience would lead to a greater awareness. That someone else’s child would be saved the ordeal.

I had to balance that with the fact that I don’t want to cause panic either.

This is rare!

It’s nowhere near as dangerous as an un-netted trampoline or a hanging blind-cord in your living room. Was it necessary?

I’ve had some responses saying that they can’t see why I’d point out what is public knowledge.

I’ve had far more responses saying that people either didn’t know that foxgloves were poisonous at all, or that they hadn’t realised they could be fatal.

I think that it’s easy to assume that just because you know something, everyone else does too.

There are many poisonous plants. But there’s something particularly enticing about foxgloves. They’re soft and they’re furry, and the flowers look like fairy hats.

So I decided sharing the story would become a part of my healing.

Telling people about a traumatic event is always a good thing. Be it your husband, your friend, your GP or counsellor. There’s something about taking the words out of your head and saying them aloud.

If you can’t find the words yet, start to write them. Put them on paper. Just for you. Just empty your head.

Sometimes people try to help by telling you how lucky you are. It’s true that I’m lucky. I am ridiculously lucky. I have so many things to be grateful for.

But focusing on the positives when I’m trying to deal with the negatives has always been problematic for me.

It’s really important to think about the good things. It’s vital. You must. But you need to make room to think about the bad things too.

Not all the time. If you find time has passed and all you’re thinking about are the negatives, then please talk to a GP. It’s what they are there for. No one wants you to struggle alone.

But if you find that you’re mostly ok, but sometimes need to shout, “It’s unfair. It is unfair. IT IS BLOODY UNFAIR.” Then in those moments, let yourself feel what your brain is trying to make you feel.

People may say “life’s unfair” or “well, yes, but we all have unfair things happen”. None of that is relevant. It’s dismissive. It’s belittling. It’s basically not listening.

It’s important to say to yourself that yes, it was unfair. Find a way to accept that.

It wasn’t some karmic justice. Karma doesn’t exist. It’s a nice thought.

Bad things happen to good people.

It’s not fair.

But it’s not the end either. We all get to choose. We get to choose the story we take forward. Everyday you get to write it in little ways. It’s not about trying to forget. Because that never works. It’s about acknowledging what happened, and moving on to new things.

Sometimes I still get angry. I blame myself. I say it’s unfair. I worry for the future.

When those times happen I give myself a bit of time to feel those feelings.

And then I get back to living in the now. I look at my beautiful family, I listen to the birds, I appreciate the moment I’m actually living in, and ignore the ever-growing pile of laundry, and it gives me some peace.

I quite like the analogy of my life as a lake. Someone chucked this huge rock into the calm waters. I’m still riding the ripples.

The more time goes by, the smaller the ripples, and the farther apart they are. When those moments come, if I try to fight them, then I make them bigger. But if I let them wash over me, accept them, talk to someone if I need to, I get back to the calm water.

One day the ripples will be so small I’ll barely notice them. Maybe a thought. A brief memory.

Maybe one day I’ll see a foxglove and just think “how beautiful”.

For now I’ll just ride the ripples.