The Good, the Bad, and the Baby

I had forgotten the intensity of caring for a newborn!  The last two weeks are a complete blur of sleepless nights, diapers, and breastfeeding, breastfeeding, breastfeeding. 

I’ve also come to realize that I’ve been running a low fever since I’ve come home from the hospital, and this terrible headache is probably not just from lack of sleep.  I think I’ve got a sinus infection, probably a leftover of the H1N1 virus.   Ryan is also sick, likely with strep throat, so today we’ll both be off to the doctors to get checked out.  Funny how it takes 2 weeks to notice that you’re sick when you have a new baby to care for.

Leah is already changing so fast.  She’s putting on weight and her head is getting bigger every day.  That’s a good growing brain in there.  She’s still so tiny, it makes me smile when I look at her feet in her little tiny pajamas.  She looks just like a baby doll, a little girl’s dream come true.  Newborn babies are smart little things, mine all learned in the first day that they were not going to sleep in their beds by themselves.  Even when I try to move her away from me on the bed during the night, she wiggles her way right back to sleeping up against my body.  It looks like sleeping soundly will have to wait yet another few years. 

 

More Reasons Not to Like Doctors and Hospitals

It all started with a call to my doctor’s office regarding the H1N1 virus that was making its way through my family.  This was on Oct. 20th, a Tuesday.  I called my Ob/Gyn to let them know that I had the infamous Swine Flu and wanted to know what the procedure would be if I were to go into labor while ill.

The first response of the receptionist was to ask me how I knew it was the Swine Flu.  Fair enough.  I told her that my son had by diagnosed by his doctor, and since we were all sick with the same symptoms, I could safely assume that it was what I had as well.  What was her professional response to that?  She said, “you don’t sound that sick.”  I laughed and thanked her for her opinion, but kindly asked if she wouldn’t mind having the physician, the dude with the medical degree, call me to answer my questions.

He returned my call a couple of hours later.  I told him I was on Tamiflu, told him that I was almost 38 weeks, which is when my last 2 children were born.  I asked him what I could expect as far as hospital procedure if I delivered while ill, if my husband could attend the birth if he was sick, if I could breastfeed the baby, and what the risks were to a newborn if she were born to a mother who was sick with the flu.

His answer to all of the above was, “I don’t know,” and “we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

Okay, fine, I thought.  He doesn’t think I’m going to deliver while I’m sick, but I’m sure he’ll let the hospital know that I might be coming in with the flu.  I’m sure he’ll look into the answers to these questions.  Laugh with me now, bwahahaha-snort.

Now, for the full perspective on what I call ineptitude and poor listening skills, let’s step back to my last several appointments with the Ob.  I have told them, both the NP and the Ob, several times over the past couple of months, and at least a couple of times in the beginning, that I deliver my babies, fast, fast, faster than fast.  Speed?  I am speed, to coin a phrase.

What was their professional response to this?  Complete and practiced nonchalance.  Even when I came up positive for GBS, a condition that requires at least 4 hours of IV antibiotics before delivery, they did not give up on their lack of concern.  It was as if the 7-8 times I had mentioned my fast deliveries never even happened!  It was like I completely wasted my breath even speaking the words.

Which brings us to the early hours of Oct. 25th, with a 2 AM wake up, a call to the doctor, and excruciating ride to the hospital, and a baby born before we could get in the doors of the hospital at 3:25.  That’s an hour and twenty-five minutes to you and me. 

We spent Sunday in a state of bliss and exhaustion, holding our new baby, thanking God that she was safe.  Late Sunday night we said goodbye to Ed for the night, and tried to settle in and relax.

Let me say here that I hate the hospital.  The only time I’ve really spent any time there was to have my babies and it has never really been a pleasant experience.  Even when conditions are at their best as far as the facilities and the staff, I am a bit of a wreck postpartum.  I feel exhausted, physically and emotionally to the point of some amount of confusion and a large amount of anxiety.  I do not like can barely tolerate being kept in an institution, the 24 hour assault on my privacy and my sleep are probably the worst things for how I feel postpartum.  I do it, however, for the well-being of my baby. 

So–back to saying goodbye to Ed for the night.  Because he knows how I feel when I’m at the hospital, he asked me a few times if I was okay, and I assured him that I was.   I told him I would call him if that changed.

A little while after he left, it changed.  My nurse came into the room, looking accusatory, and told me she had just gotten off the phone with my Nurse Practitioner.  “MJ said you were sick with the Swine Flu.” 

“Yes, I told my doctor’s office that almost a week ago.”

“Well, now we have to put you on isolation,” she said with irritation.

“Why?  I’m not sick anymore.”

From there, it all went downhill.  It seems to have come as a complete surprise to the nurses and doctors that they might get a patient with the flu, and have to answer some simple questions regarding their care.  No one wanted to come into the room, because to do so meant having to put on scrubs and a mask and goggles.  Leah was banned from the newborn nursery, for reasons that still remain very unclear to me, and we were left to fend for ourselves for the night. 

Another nurse came to the doorway to talk to me, but didn’t want to come in the room.  She STOOD in my DOORWAY, shouting to me about what they thought I might have to do.  The list included my husband no longer being able to come see us, my having to go back on Tamiflu which would prevent me from nursing my new baby for 5 days, and perhaps not having any visitors at all.

I informed them–AGAIN–that I hadn’t been sick in about 4 days, that I no longer had the freaking Swine Flu, that they were basically all a bunch of ass hats, that I would not take Tamiflu–because I WAS NO LONGER SICK–and I would not stop nursing my daughter. 

The next morning, I was starving waiting for someone to bring me my breakfast.  I rang my nurse twice before she finally came in at 9:30 and I asked her if I would be allowed my breakfast that morning.  She went and brought it in to me, and it was cold and soggy.  They didn’t want to be hassled to bring it to me when it was hot, because that would require putting on scrubs, etc.

A little while later the NP who had started this whole fiasco came in to see me in full hazmat gear.  By this time I was so angry and upset that I probably could have spit nails at her.  She and the nurse just stood there gazing at me from behind their masks, and I did my best to ignore them by looking at the TV.  At this point I had completely given up on their competence, which leaves them with nothing to say to me.

Then she made the supreme mistake of saying to me, “boy, you do labor fast!”  As if it were some kind of a cute joke!  Like we could laugh together about what happened!  As if GBS were nothing to be concerned about!  As if nothing terrible could have happened from my baby being born in a wheelchair, in the parking lot of the hospital!

All I could do at that point is grit my teeth and say, “I told you that.”  To which her response was to walk quickly out of the room, which was probably the smartest thing she had done thus far.

Ed came in an hour later, and was chased down by my nurse who told him he had to put the full gear on to sit in the room with us.  I wanted to know why, since we were apparently all equally infectious.  I stated that it would make more sense if Ed were required to wear the gear to and from my room, so that no one else in the hospital would be infected.  She responded with some drivel about policy, to which I stated that I was going home, immediately, with my daughter.

It didn’t take long after that for them to send in the nurse manager to talk us down from the precipice from which we were about to leap; the one from which you jump after you realize how very little the institution is doing for you, and just how much you’re paying them to do it.

We told her our story, for which she sincerely apologized.  She guilted me into staying another day, “for the baby,” because Leah had been exposed to GBS, because of my practitioners who did not listen to me. 

She was useful, I have to admit, because she looked into all of my questions.  Apparently I would not have to stop nursing to take Tamiflu, although I would not be taking it because I was NO LONGER SICK.  She also checked the CDC guidelines for when a person could be considered no longer contagious and found out–get ready–that Ed and I were no longer contagious!  Even from the time we came into the hospital!  So none of this was necessary.  Just like I had told them in the first place.  Isn’t it funny how no one bothered to find out this tiny bit of information until I had been run through the ringer?  Again we all had a laugh together.

So–I stayed the extra night, for my little Leah, because that’s what mommies do.  We got a letter of apology about the mix-up, a souvenir spoon from the hospital, and I decided to be civil toward my nurse.  But what I mostly got out of the experience is further validation of my negative feelings toward hospitals and the medical establishment, and some memories that make me feel pretty angry.  That is simply priceless, don’t you think?

A Few More Pictures…

 

Leah Rose, 10/25/09

Oh, she is a beautiful baby girl, well worth the sickness and the wait. 

I went into labor sometime in the very early morning of Sunday, Oct. 25.  I woke up around 2 AM, with a strong suspicion that this was the real thing.  Afterall, I had a talk with Leah that very evening before going to bed, and told her that it would be okay for her to come out now.  I guess she was listening.

I woke  Ed and he immediately called his mother, asking her to come over and watch the kids.  At this point I was still a little worried that I wasn’t really in labor and that I was getting everyone up for nothing.  I was having pains, but they were brief and chaotic.  It would hurt for a few seconds, and then stop, then it would hurt for a few seconds again.

I got up to go to the bathroom, and that’s when the show really started.  By the time I got downstairs, the pain was becoming unbearable.  Within minutes I was on the floor with my head on the sofa, trying not to scream and wake up the kids.

All that went out the window pretty quickly.  By the time Ed’s mother got to our house I was in agony, asking Ed to please hold me every time I had a contraction, begging him to please help me.  I managed to get into the truck between contraction, and we hit the road for the 15-20 minute ride to the hospital.

Each contraction was like something was trying to rip my body apart.  I was trying to control myself because Ed was trying to drive, trying to breath through the contractions, but the way they came on so violently made it about impossible to bear.  Then they suddenly slowed down, and I knew I was in trouble.  I was getting a break between contraction and gazing at a leaf trapped beneath the wiper blade as it flapped violently in the wind.  That’s when it occurred to me that I was fully dilated, and that’s why I was getting a longer break between contractions.

The next contractions were just as violent, and I’m sure I was doing anything to help keep Ed’s attention on the road as my water broke with a huge gush.  The pain intensified then, and I was again begging Ed to help me, knowing that he could do nothing but drive that truck as fast as he could to the hospital.

We got to the parking lot and Ed was driving over curbs and we went to the wrong door before figuring out that we had to go in through the ER.  The parking lot is a crazy mess of one ways and blocked entrances, so again he just drove over the curb to get us where we had to go.  He pulled up outside the ER, and I was screaming at him to get someone to help us because I could feel the baby coming out.  I remember a wheelchair appearing outside the truck as though someone had thrown it there, yelling for help again, and then Ed appeared with a large male nurse.  I didn’t think I’d make it into the chair, but again the contraction stopped, and I got from the truck to the wheelchair as quickly as possible before another contraction started.  I started screaming that she was coming out, and as I lifted my legs to allow them to push me in (there were no foot rests!), I felt her head pop out.  I made this know, and they stopped the wheelchair just outside the ER doors.  I lifted myself up in the chair as the rest of her body pushed its way out of me, and there she was, in my pant leg.

At that point it seemed like time stood still.  I don’t think anyone in that ER was expecting that to happen.  I started asking someone to help her, help make sure she was warm, and the ER nurse pulled out his scissors and began cutting my pants off.  I picked Leah up in my arms and held her against me while trying to pull the cord off of her neck.  Another man appeared with scissors and clamps, a doctor, looking rather freaked out as he tried to clamp and cut the cord as it was taught  around her back. 

It all gets pretty fuzzy after that.  They wheeled us in and gave me a warm blanket to put on Leah, and I looked around at some faces that were watching this spectacle from their darkened ER cubbies.  Finally they wheeled us into semi-privacy, and a woman showed up with a  baby warmer from labor and delivery to take care of Leah.  I was in a bed and shaking violently at this point, but was glad to be hearing good things from the warming bed about Leah’s condition.  Ed was with her, looking like he was in complete shock.  I don’t know how much time went by, but a pediatrician came in, still wearing his jacket, told me she looked perfect, and pushed her up to the nursery with Ed escorting our new daughter.

How long did it take all this to transpire?  One hour and twenty-five minutes.  I was up at 2, she was born at 3:25.  Yeah.  I told you I labor fast.

She was 7 lbs., 10 oz., and 19″ long.  We are so grateful that she is okay, she truly is the most beautiful girl I have ever seen:

Waiting for the Miracle

The world has taken to standing still.  Like Groundhog’s Day, each day is like the one before in that I am still pregnant.  I’m 38.2 weeks pregnant, which is exactly how pregnant I was when I had Ryan.  Two days more pregnant than I was when I had Sean.  Not that I’m counting.

There’s the usual discomfort of pregnancy, along with the excitement of meeting your new baby that make the last few days maddening; but with me there’s always the added enticement of knowing that the end of the pregnancy is also the end of the nausea and vomiting.  It’s so close within my reach, and yet it feels like it’s never going to happen.

The other night I was up off and on all night long with contractions, thinking that maybe the time had come, but it was just another false alarm.  I think I’m anxious about missing the onset of labor because I’m GBS + and worried I won’t get to the hospital in time for the 4 hours of antibiotics you’re supposed to have before giving birth.  When I had Ryan I got to the hospital with 20 minutes to spare, which was why I was induced with Sean.  Even with the induction it only took about 5 hours from beginning to birth. 

I’m on edge.

He Who Laughs Last, Laughs Hardest….

I have to admit to yucking it up with a friend of mine on-line over all the swine-flu hysteria of the past 4-6 months or so.  It’s hard not to laugh when the media does  its utmost to make you feel like your particular death sentence has you in its sights and there is no where for you to hide. 

That is until my entire family came down with it late last week.  Yes, the whole family.  I thought Sean would make it out unscathed until his fever reached close to 104 degrees in the wee hours of Wednesday morning.  Since then we’ve been in periodic wrestling matches involving a medicine dropper full of acetaminophen.  He’s been living with a streak of matted down hair full of sticky medicine for 2 days now, as I don’t have the heart to give him a bath while he has a fever.

Ed took all of the kids to the doctor on Tuesday for confirmation, where they did a nasal swab on Thomas and it came back positive for H1N1–or the world famous Swine Flu.  This has put to rest any arguments on the pros and cons of vaccination, at least in this family.  It wasn’t yet available to us, so we didn’t get it–but for God’s sake, if it’s available in your area–get it!  This is not a fun illness to watch your family suffer through.

Because our pediatrician is the Single Nicest Man and Best Doctor Ever, he even listened to Ed’s breathing and prescribed Tamiflu for me, even though I’m not his patient and I was at home sleeping at the time.  He knows we’re expecting a baby any day now, and he just did it to do the right thing.  I could weep, so rare is this type of behavior from the medical professionals I encounter.

This flu doesn’t have your normal course–like your typical nasty cold.  You feel bad with a fever for a couple of days, and then you start to think you’re getting better.  You think, “Hey!  That wasn’t so bad!”  Then the next day you wake up feeling like someone has run you down with their car, and your fever is back and higher than ever.

Even after Tommy’s fever was gone, he woke up with pain in his legs and he was unable to walk well all day long.  According to his doctor, it’s a common side effect.  It’s now been a few days since he’s had a fever, but he’s still hoarse and coughing, so we’re keeping an eye on him.

Ryan and I were able to get the much sought-after Tamiflu antiviral medication; Ry because he has asthma, and me because I’m pregnant (still).  I can’t say too much for it myself, but it seems to be working well with Ryan.

Like most things, it seems to have been harder on the adults than on the kids.  Ed and I seem to have gotten sicker for longer, with nightmares and night sweats and talking to people who aren’t there.  Which makes me realize that the Swine Flu has gotten the last laugh with us.  Now we’re very serious about our flu.  Serious as a heart attack.

35.6

If you think it’s annoying to have me counting the days until this baby is born, just imagine what it’s like to be my husband.  Heck, just imagine what it’s like to be me. 

I went to see the lecturing Ob/gyn again yesterday, for that pesky Group-B Strep test and a check of the cervix.  The cervix is doing nothing, even with what is probably a 7 1/2 lb. baby resting on top of it.  What does this mean?  Nothing.  It don’t mean nothin’. 

My MIL is our go-to kid watcher when we are in a rush to go to the hospital, we’ve been talking to her about logistics for a few months now, especially since I tend to labor fast, fast, fast.  So yesterday the lady tells me she’s going away for the weekend a week before my due date.  Urghle, gurgle, flp, grr.  Or whatever that means. 

I don’t know why she’s springing this on me now, since she’s the kind of person who knows what she’s doing 6 months in advance and likes to tell you about it.  I’m leaning toward the possibility that she’s trying to drive me insane.  Little does she know that it’s much too late, that ship sailed looooong ago.

Hey!  Who needs her?  Not me, nope.  We’ll just take the kids to the hospital with us if we have to.  Oh boy.

Only eight days until I’m considered full term.  Ryan was born 12 days early, Seanie was induced 2 weeks early, and Tommy was born on his due date.  What does this mean?  Nothing.  Absoluta’mente nada.

Some Compassion for my Doctors

I was thinking about writing a rant about how many times I’ve left a doctor’s office, whether it be for my children or for myself, feeling like an idiot for any of a whole host of reasons.  Then I got to thinking about it, and I actually started to feel a little bit sorry for all of the doctors out there.  I mean, the job has got to suck at times.

Afterall, I’ve spent enough time feeling sorry for myself because of situations like yesterday.  Two weeks ago I saw the nurse practitioner for my prenatal exam, at which time she asked me if I wanted to do my Group-B Strep test at 35 weeks or at 36 weeks.  I was given a choice, so in a rather arbitrary fashion I chose 35 weeks.  Whatever.

So yesterday, after sitting on a tiny table like a turtle on its back for 20 minutes doing a non-stress test for the baby and wearing nothing from the waist down but a over-sized paper towel; the good doctor came into the room and gave me a lecture on why it is we do the Group-B Strep test at 36 weeks instead of at 35.  He seemed irritated.  I was his last patient of the day, and he was obviously in a rush to get somewhere (perhaps a delivery?).  So I let him make his speech and leave the room quickly.

I wanted to shout, “Hey!  Wait!  I was given a choice, so I chose!  I don’t care what you do!  Get back here right now, I’m not an idiot, really!”  but, I didn’t.  That only would have made me seem like a lunatic on top of being an idiot. 

I’ve often complained about these situations to whomever will listen, or at least pretend to listen.  Why do doctors, pediatricians, OB/Gyns, etc., have to talk to us like we are the single stupidest person they will ever encounter in their entire professional career?

Then I thought about my own experiences working with the general public, and how unimpressed I’ve been with the behavior I’ve witnessed.  Then I thought, what if my job weren’t making some idiot a latte?  What if my job were to try to help that idiot take care of her body, or even worse, her children?  That’s when I realized that I wouldn’t just be treating everyone like they were stupid, because for their own safety I had to assume that they were in fact stupid; I would lose my freaking mind altogether.

I can only imagine the frightening and stupid things that your average pediatrician and ob/gyn has seen in his or her career.  I have sympathy and compassion for them now, and some understanding when it comes to the many times I’ve left the doctor feeling like nothing more than a drooling, knuckle-dragging primate, barely able to make it through my day without inadvertently killing myself and my offspring. 

Doctors–my hat’s off to you.

Except the one that once asked me if I left my baby in the car on a 95 degree day.  You can kiss it.

The Road to Heaven is Paved With Recylced Tires

My son began his very first catechism class yesterday at our parish.  He wasn’t too excited when I dropped him off, maybe because I rushed him off the school bus, told him to go to the bathroom and wash his hands, shoved a snack and drink down his throat, and then whisked him away for more schooling.

He’s a trooper though, like most 6 year olds, and can stand this sort of thing better than your average grown up.  By the time I picked him up at 5 PM, he was happy and excited to tell me about everything he learned. 

They said a new prayer, went to the dining hall to meet new friends, and learned about how God wants us all to recycle.  Yeah.  Recycle.

It took me aback at first, because it wasn’t what I expected to hear from him the first day of catechism.  I thought he would bring home some work about Jesus, maybe talk about who Jesus is and what he means to us, that sort of thing.  Instead, he brought a worksheet home about not letting the water run too long, and putting your old newspapers in a special place.  Hmmm.

Contrary to popular stereotype, as a conservative I am not anti-environment (stifle snort here).  I love the environment.  I live in the woods, grew up in a house in the woods, and nothing will ruin my weekend faster than taking the kids fishing and seeing all the garbage the other folks throw in the lake while they’re fishing.

The difference is in how we prioritize the environment in our hearts and minds.  I do believe that we are custodians of the land, I do believe there should be regulation of how we use and treat the land, I certainly believe that people should be publicly beatenpunished for using and then polluting our local fishing hole (grrr!).  We recycle, we don’t run our water when we’re not using it, we don’t throw our trash around.  Yeah, and I’m not even a liberal.  Shocking.

Not only that, but I’m quite capable of teaching my children about how to do these things, and it is not why I bring my 6-year-old to the Church’s school every Wednesday afternoon.  Why and how do these things creep into the Catholic Church’s teaching, as the very first thing my youngster learns?  I’m suspending judgement, really I am, until I see what else they’ve got up there sleeves.  No, it doesn’t hurt my child to learn that God wants him to care for the earth, but I certainly hope they won’t neglect some more important topics, or even share some bible stories, perhaps?

Sigh.

Approaching week 34 of this pregnancy and I’m preoccupied with the end game.  I hardly blog anymore, don’t have much to say to anyone, mostly because I’m increasingly feeling sick.  My pubic symphysis dysfunction, OMG.  It hurts.  It was uncomfortable before, but now the baby weighs about 6 lbs and has her head lodged in my pelvic bones, we turned it up to a new level of pain.

I’m doing the minimum housework necessary, with grand ideas of washing floors that never get further than my head.  I figure I can wash the floors all I want after this baby is born and it won’t hurt nearly as much to do it.  Then I find myself whining that it’s not even October yet!  Haven’t I been pregnant for like 3 years? 

I know complaining is unattractive, but I’ve never let a little thing like that stop me before, so I’m letting it all hang out.  The last weeks of pregnancy are fraught with every emotion under the sun and infused with discomfort and downright pain.  All this will climax in of some of the worst pain I’ll experience in my life before my own actual death, pain I’m supposed to conquer with bravery and without drugs.  If I can’t complain now, when would be a good time?

I’ve washed the co-sleeper.  I’ve counted the baby clothes, but have yet to wash and put them away.  The infant car seat is ready.   Here I sit, waiting.  Waiting.  Waiting.