So last week was pretty horrendous. This new feeding schedule is supposed to be freeing up time for me and Little O, but it's actually become a little more taxing. On Thursday for example, Little O woke us at 5am for a throw-up and scream fest, but then did settle down again until 7.30am... for another throw-up and scream fest. He basically hasn't gotten all his PediaSure overnight since we started this routine a week ago, so on Thursday morning I just dumped out the remainder and put it back in to the fridge so I could give it to him later in the day via a bolus gravity feed. (I hate that term: bolus gravity feed. It makes me think of bowels and space and Newton and, for some reason, balloon catheters. It's just a really irritating phrase.) So that day I had to give him his remaining PediaSure at 9.30am because he got fussy and I correctly interpreted that as hunger, then water and an oral feed at 11.00am because his speech therapist came over, and finally set his pump to run at 12pm for his regularly-scheduled nap. It meant I spent allllllll fucking morning feeding (or fretting about feeding) my son.
It's been pretty much the same story all week.
Anywhoo, my husband and I weighed him tonight before bed and Little O has gained three ounces! Yay! He was 23lb 3oz last Thursday (July 29th), and weighed 23lb 6oz today (Aug 7th). It's not a great gain, but I WILL TAKE IT! We're still not jumping up and down, but hopefully this is the start of a better journey. The more weight he puts on and the bigger he gets, the more his stomach will be able to tolerate (in theory, I stress), which means we can up the pump rate and he'll hopefully keep more down. It's all a matter of biology I suppose.
My Mum is coming to see me next week! She'll be here for my birthday, which makes it the third year in a row I've had family out to Wisconsin on that day. It's rather remarkable and I feel incredibly special, but it is helped by both my parents working in education and August falling during the UK schools' summer holidays. She'll be bringing over D, who is a lovely young chap who lives with my Mum and Dad, and who has had a rather interesting start in life. It's not my place to discuss his affairs online, but I'm looking forward to seeing them both. (Worth noting is the fact he's openly gay, before anyone raises an eyebrow at a 52-year-old woman and 22-year-old man going away together on holiday.) Hopefully D will help break some of the inevitable tension that accompanies those times my Mum and I get together.
Mmm... they're bringing some Cadbury's Dairy Milk too...
In anticipation of their visit, my husband and I have been madly preparing the house for guests. Normally this involves washing the sheets on the guest bed and cleaning the bathrooms (both done far too rarely), but we've gone a little mad this time.
On the list this weekend:
1) Go to the DMV for the Ford's MOT/emissions test
2) Vacuum carpets
3) Clean carpets (we bought a fancy carpet cleaner machine for this, seeing as Little O gets our house rather filthy, and it's already paid for itself after four months)
4) Wash all bedding (yup, all three beds)
5) Tidy and organise the basement (a rather big job, which we're excellent at avoiding)
6) Clean oven inside and out (again, a job done too rarely, but I seem to have fallen in love with the self-clean programme and I fancy this will be done more often now)
7) Clean microwave (ditto... sigh)
8) Clean both bathrooms (I refuse to do this. It's gross)
9) Wash all non-carpeted floors
10) Clean upholstery in living room (our fancy-pants carpet cleaner has a gizmo for this, and Little O's goo gets EVERYWHERE)
11) Mow lawn (I actually really love doing this)
12) Stain the deck (we did this earlier today and now it's a rather startling shade of orange. Oops)
13) Replace batteries in kitchen clock (cheap piece of crap)
14) Go grocery shopping
15) Dusting
16) De-flea Bob (all done now! He shrieked like you wouldn't believe, but that shampoo is awesome. And now we have clean carpets and anti-flea stuff down too, so those little buggers better find somewhere else to live)
17) Finish toy box (my husband's job. He started making Little O a toy box for his birthday... which was in May... sigh...)
18) Put up curtain tie-backs in guest room
19) Replace air filter in heating/air conditioning unit (it's been well over a year, and who knows how long it had been there when we moved in. We changed it today and it was black)
20) Clean kitchen top to bottom
21) Laundry
There are others, but we've either done them already and I've forgotten them, or we're clearly never going to do them and I've also forgotten them. But at least five of those items on the list are BIG JOBS and it took us all day today to get them done. Tomorrow we're going out for brunch at the Botanical Gardens, thanks to our lovely friends J&G, who gave us a voucher for free babysitting and two paid-for brunches to use whenever we chose. I'm trying really hard not to stress about leaving Little O for a couple of hours because I know he'll be safe and loved, but I'm such a control freak when it comes to my son. It's really hard to spend all day looking after him and then hand him off to someone else, no questions asked. I feel guilty and a little bit lost. I need to work harder at letting go... but I don't really want to...
This post is a little bit of a ramble, I know. It's probably very boring to read about the chores we're getting done this weekend, but I felt a bit absent after my last post and I wanted to write about something utterly mundane. And chores are pretty fucking mundane.
I still miss Anthea. She moved in to a new flat a few weeks ago (they OWN it! In London! How cool is THAT?) and hasn't had any internet since then. She also works in education so it's not like she can nip in to work and get online for a few hours. It means I haven't chatted to her for aaaaaages, and right now she, her husband, her son, my other sister V, and my Dad are all on what sounds like a rather hilarious canal boat holiday. My Dad's always wanted to go on one but my Mum prefers city breaks so we never did it as children. Now Mum's flying over to see me, and Dad's taking the initiative and cramming four adults and a one-year-old on to a narrow boat for two weeks. It will be absolutely fucking hilarious and while I miss them like crazy, I also can't wait to hear about how much they got on each other's nerves and how my Dad nearly capsized a 30ft-long canal boat in some random lock.
Good times, man... good times.
Tina.
Showing posts with label Family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Family. Show all posts
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
From good to bad to worse
Yeah, so I started today out feeling better about the 'situation' and even got as far as to write a post about the good news. Then the rest of my day took over and now I feel desperately unhappy again.
I'm just not getting a good grip on Little O's feeds. I've been trying for so long to adapt and persevere, but it seems like there's a constant wall up ahead that I can't climb over. Since he came home from the hospital on June 10th, 2009, my husband and I have battled and battled to make sure Little O has been fed properly and makes gains in his growth and development. We've tried so hard to offer him a variety of foods; changed formulas three times (four if you include breastmilk); worked with gravity feeds, pump feeds, bottle feeds, spoon feeds, safety-feeder feeds; and all along we've had experts in our ears telling us to 'switch this', or 'stick with that'.
I'm exhausted, and I've spent a great deal of today in tears. Last week we weighed Little O on our home scales and were dismayed to see he still hasn't gained any weight since April. April! I took him to Seattle in April.... it seems a very long time ago. After noticing this problem I called his nutritionist and suggested to her we try feeding him his PediaSure when he's asleep ONLY. He's generally a very good sleeper and will sleep for about 11 or 12 hours at night and another three or four in the afternoon, so the idea of slowly pump-feeding him while he naps seems like a good solution. The theory is that he'll not only stop throwing up (because the rate is so slow on the pump), but it will also free up large portions of the day to concentrate on oral feeds. If I'm not having to force liquid nutrition into him while also forcing a spoon into his mouth, it means he's less likely to throw up solids, AND he'll hopefully enjoy oral feeds more. And then, the more oral intake he has, the less liquid nutrition he needs.
IMAGINE! Imagine this glorious world where your baby boy doesn't live in constant pain. Imagine packing the burp cloths and wipe-up rags into storage because you don't have to mop up sick five times a day. Imagine feeding your child like any other family, where dinner time isn't battle-time and you don't have to mentally and physically gear yourself up for war. Imagine putting your child to bed knowing they've felt no discomfort all day and that they can look forward to a tomorrow where eating is a nice, enjoyable activity. Just imagine...
Today I can't imagine this world. This world seems very far away. My baby boy is nearly 15-months-old and his reflux is still the hardest challenge he faces. He woke up several times in the night to throw up or just scream, and even when I went in at 7.30am, the pump still had nearly 100ml left to go. I don't know what to do. I can't set the pump to go any faster because he'll just throw it up, and I can't leave the food in the bag because he needs the nutrition to grow. I can't run the pump for longer because he needs to be asleep, and I can't let him sleep for longer because then he won't nap in the afternoon...
Yesterday I was so pleased that Little O went down for his nap at 12pm and slept right through until 3.30pm. I was pleased, because it meant he got all his PediaSure and I didn't have to worry about a thing. That was, until I went to wake him up and saw that the med-port on his extension tube (the tube that clicks into his stomach) had popped open during his nap, and he was laying in a large, wet pool of pink PediaSure. So after three and a half hours of pump operation, Little O had digested exactly nothing. Nada. Zilch. And this morning I went in at 7.30am because he was yelling his head off, only to discover that he'd thrown up a large volume of goo, and was now laying in a large, wet pool of chocolate PediaSure. And that brown stuff STAINS. So, for the second time in two days I had to change his bedclothes, comfort a soaking wet little boy, and fret about the fact he's not getting enough food digested.
I am just SO DONE WITH REFLUX! I cannot, cannot keep fighting this battle. I just can't do it. I don't have the patience. I certainly don't have the energy. I cannot keep explaining to experts how horrific our lives have become only to have them dismiss my words. I'm so sad and angry and frustrated. I need for this to go away; I need a Fairy Godmother to come and visit my house and whisk us all away to that lovely other world where Little O doesn't cry out in pain in the middle of the night and where bedsheets aren't stained to the point of embarrasment. I need for someone else to take care of us. I need to be able to focus on something, anything else but whether my son is growing and eating and comfortable. I need a break. A real, honest break.
I need to see to my sister. I really miss her. I miss both my sisters, but sometimes you just need a hug from your big sister and you get the energy back to fight another day.
God, I need some help. And I need to stop crying.
Tina.
I'm just not getting a good grip on Little O's feeds. I've been trying for so long to adapt and persevere, but it seems like there's a constant wall up ahead that I can't climb over. Since he came home from the hospital on June 10th, 2009, my husband and I have battled and battled to make sure Little O has been fed properly and makes gains in his growth and development. We've tried so hard to offer him a variety of foods; changed formulas three times (four if you include breastmilk); worked with gravity feeds, pump feeds, bottle feeds, spoon feeds, safety-feeder feeds; and all along we've had experts in our ears telling us to 'switch this', or 'stick with that'.
I'm exhausted, and I've spent a great deal of today in tears. Last week we weighed Little O on our home scales and were dismayed to see he still hasn't gained any weight since April. April! I took him to Seattle in April.... it seems a very long time ago. After noticing this problem I called his nutritionist and suggested to her we try feeding him his PediaSure when he's asleep ONLY. He's generally a very good sleeper and will sleep for about 11 or 12 hours at night and another three or four in the afternoon, so the idea of slowly pump-feeding him while he naps seems like a good solution. The theory is that he'll not only stop throwing up (because the rate is so slow on the pump), but it will also free up large portions of the day to concentrate on oral feeds. If I'm not having to force liquid nutrition into him while also forcing a spoon into his mouth, it means he's less likely to throw up solids, AND he'll hopefully enjoy oral feeds more. And then, the more oral intake he has, the less liquid nutrition he needs.
IMAGINE! Imagine this glorious world where your baby boy doesn't live in constant pain. Imagine packing the burp cloths and wipe-up rags into storage because you don't have to mop up sick five times a day. Imagine feeding your child like any other family, where dinner time isn't battle-time and you don't have to mentally and physically gear yourself up for war. Imagine putting your child to bed knowing they've felt no discomfort all day and that they can look forward to a tomorrow where eating is a nice, enjoyable activity. Just imagine...
Today I can't imagine this world. This world seems very far away. My baby boy is nearly 15-months-old and his reflux is still the hardest challenge he faces. He woke up several times in the night to throw up or just scream, and even when I went in at 7.30am, the pump still had nearly 100ml left to go. I don't know what to do. I can't set the pump to go any faster because he'll just throw it up, and I can't leave the food in the bag because he needs the nutrition to grow. I can't run the pump for longer because he needs to be asleep, and I can't let him sleep for longer because then he won't nap in the afternoon...
Yesterday I was so pleased that Little O went down for his nap at 12pm and slept right through until 3.30pm. I was pleased, because it meant he got all his PediaSure and I didn't have to worry about a thing. That was, until I went to wake him up and saw that the med-port on his extension tube (the tube that clicks into his stomach) had popped open during his nap, and he was laying in a large, wet pool of pink PediaSure. So after three and a half hours of pump operation, Little O had digested exactly nothing. Nada. Zilch. And this morning I went in at 7.30am because he was yelling his head off, only to discover that he'd thrown up a large volume of goo, and was now laying in a large, wet pool of chocolate PediaSure. And that brown stuff STAINS. So, for the second time in two days I had to change his bedclothes, comfort a soaking wet little boy, and fret about the fact he's not getting enough food digested.
I am just SO DONE WITH REFLUX! I cannot, cannot keep fighting this battle. I just can't do it. I don't have the patience. I certainly don't have the energy. I cannot keep explaining to experts how horrific our lives have become only to have them dismiss my words. I'm so sad and angry and frustrated. I need for this to go away; I need a Fairy Godmother to come and visit my house and whisk us all away to that lovely other world where Little O doesn't cry out in pain in the middle of the night and where bedsheets aren't stained to the point of embarrasment. I need for someone else to take care of us. I need to be able to focus on something, anything else but whether my son is growing and eating and comfortable. I need a break. A real, honest break.
I need to see to my sister. I really miss her. I miss both my sisters, but sometimes you just need a hug from your big sister and you get the energy back to fight another day.
God, I need some help. And I need to stop crying.
Tina.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Part 2
Right, where was I?
At about 12.00pm I asked to get back into the bath. (Midwife: "That's a good idea, it can really help to speed things along". So why aren't there rows of baths instead of beds on maternity wards then?) I had actually wanted a water birth but, as I say, I don't think anyone bothered to look at my birth plan, and I was too frightened to speak up. Anyway, I got into the bath, dragging my Entonox cylinder with me, and promptly relaxed and calmed down. I continued to doze off between contractions, with the Entonox mouthpiece falling out of my mouth! Before long, though, I thought, "this baby's coming." I gesiculated wildly at the midwife's pull-cord to get my husband to summon her, but he didn't know what I was pointing at and thought I wanted something from my pile of clothes on the windowsill! I finally gasped "midwife!" and he got her.
I was taken back to my bed to be examined, whereupon my waters broke. I was 7cm dilated and preparations were made to take me down to the labour ward. At this point the 'show' appeared (the mucus plug in the cervix which keeps everything sealed up for 9 months). I spotted it on the bed and asked what it was (I wanted to be sure). "Oh, that's the show," said the midwife, and threw a sheet over it. "You weren't supposed to see that." Why the hell not? "It's ok, I made it," I managed to say. The staff commented that I still had a sense of humour - which was true but that wasn't the point. It had been inside me for all that time and I wanted to see it, to be aware of everything that had and was still happening to me. Why did they feel the need to keep it hidden? Is there honestly still a belief that these natural female bodily functions and secretions are shameful and dirty? I was put in a wheelchair and taken to the labour ward - but not before a little wait because there was a hospital tour for expectant mothers taking place and, the state I was in, I don't think they wanted me to frighten them! I'm not sure what I think about this. I mean, I was about to give birth, surely my needs should have been top of the list, but it is good that they wanted to give the expectant mothers a positive impression of what they're about to endure (however misleading that may be).
So then. Onto the second stage, or 'active labour'. I had originally decided not to have an epidural as I didn't fancy the side-effects (loss of bladder control, lasting numbness that would have to wear off, etc) but at this stage I changed my mind and decided I wanted one. However, the staff said that I was doing so well and things were moving on at such a pace that I would probably get on without one. I began pushing with the contractions, and stopped taking the Entonox (no pain relief at all! I am a hardass.). This carried on for nearly two hours, during which time I repeatedly requested an epidural and was repeatedly told (very nicely, though) that it would probably not be worth it. However, before long I was shouting "I don't care if you have to keep your quotas down or whatever, I wanted an epidural and YOU wouldn't give me one!" In retrospect, I'm pleased that I made it through without one, but it's myself I'm pleased with, not the staff. They should have given me what I wanted. I was given fluids in an IV in my left hand, and I remember informng them that I give blood from my right, and that they might have more luck finding a vein there!
What nobody knew at this stage was that the baby's cord was wrapped three times around the neck, which was why the baby wasn't making progress down the birth canal. A (male) obsetrician appeared at this point (to be honest, plenty of people were in and out of that room over those few hours, and I could not tell you how many or who the majority of them were. My mind was elsewhere) and he said that they were going to 'give the baby a hand' getting out, since progress had stalled and the baby's heartbeat had slowed. Whatever my feelings on interventions during birth were prior to this, this was brilliant news. As I was moaning and complaining about the pain, a midwife said, "it's 3.00pm. Your baby will be born by 10 past". The best thing I had heard all day.
The end of the bed came away, my head went back, the stirrups appeared and up went my legs. I was given four injections of local anaesthetic and an episiotomy (cut thorught the perenium) was perfomed. Yes, it's an absolute cariacature of childbirth, and it was quite a bloodbath (and have I mentioned the shit yet? Yes, I shat myself while I was pushing. And couldn't care less). A suction cup (ventouse) was attached to the baby's head, and with a few more pushes and contractions, the head was out. I asked why I couldn't hear the baby. I still don't understand why babies don't cry as soon as their head's born! A couple more contractions and pushes and my husband cried "It's a boy! Oh, it's S------!" and my brand new son was born.
He was a huge baby - 9lb 4oz, I shortly learned - and he had shat himself too, and was grey from the birth goo and the effect of the birth on his circulation. They plonked him on my tummy and the first thing I saw was this enormous, round, grey baby bum with a brown anus! Nice! I didn't even see his face until minutes later, when the cord had been cut and he'd been wrapped in a blanket. Next time, I'm going to insist that all that can wait until I've seen my baby's face and kissed it. Nor did I see the placenta, which I really wanted a look at (see 'the show', above). In all honesty, my prevailing feeling at that point was relief and gladness at the pregnancy, labour and birth being over, rather than joy or excitement at meeting S. That sounds awful, but in my defence, I had had virtually no sleep, there was no food in my system, I had never experienced pain like it, and I was rather out of it from the Entonox. And I doubt I'm the first new mother to have felt like that! giving birth was simultaneously the best and worst experience of my life, although I would not come to see it as the best for little while. Predictably, the first thing I said was, "I'm never doing that again!" The midwives all laughed and said, "they all say that," so I pointed to my husband and said, "well, you're having the next one then!" And I meant it.
Apparently I only swore once and only told my husband to shut up once - less than on a normal day!
I've been writing this as much for me as for anyone else to read it. While women the world over give birth every minute, I have done it but once, and it was the experience of my life. Nothing else comes close. Every woman's birth story is unique and I'm glad I've now got mine on record. Having said that, it's true that nature causes you to forget the pain, so despite this being a pretty accurate account, I know something is missing. We all know that if any mother had an accurate memory of giving birth, she would never put herself through it again! I've got a lot more to tell about the first days and months of S's life, and hope I can continue to write on here a little more often. But now it's teatime.
Anthea
At about 12.00pm I asked to get back into the bath. (Midwife: "That's a good idea, it can really help to speed things along". So why aren't there rows of baths instead of beds on maternity wards then?) I had actually wanted a water birth but, as I say, I don't think anyone bothered to look at my birth plan, and I was too frightened to speak up. Anyway, I got into the bath, dragging my Entonox cylinder with me, and promptly relaxed and calmed down. I continued to doze off between contractions, with the Entonox mouthpiece falling out of my mouth! Before long, though, I thought, "this baby's coming." I gesiculated wildly at the midwife's pull-cord to get my husband to summon her, but he didn't know what I was pointing at and thought I wanted something from my pile of clothes on the windowsill! I finally gasped "midwife!" and he got her.
I was taken back to my bed to be examined, whereupon my waters broke. I was 7cm dilated and preparations were made to take me down to the labour ward. At this point the 'show' appeared (the mucus plug in the cervix which keeps everything sealed up for 9 months). I spotted it on the bed and asked what it was (I wanted to be sure). "Oh, that's the show," said the midwife, and threw a sheet over it. "You weren't supposed to see that." Why the hell not? "It's ok, I made it," I managed to say. The staff commented that I still had a sense of humour - which was true but that wasn't the point. It had been inside me for all that time and I wanted to see it, to be aware of everything that had and was still happening to me. Why did they feel the need to keep it hidden? Is there honestly still a belief that these natural female bodily functions and secretions are shameful and dirty? I was put in a wheelchair and taken to the labour ward - but not before a little wait because there was a hospital tour for expectant mothers taking place and, the state I was in, I don't think they wanted me to frighten them! I'm not sure what I think about this. I mean, I was about to give birth, surely my needs should have been top of the list, but it is good that they wanted to give the expectant mothers a positive impression of what they're about to endure (however misleading that may be).
So then. Onto the second stage, or 'active labour'. I had originally decided not to have an epidural as I didn't fancy the side-effects (loss of bladder control, lasting numbness that would have to wear off, etc) but at this stage I changed my mind and decided I wanted one. However, the staff said that I was doing so well and things were moving on at such a pace that I would probably get on without one. I began pushing with the contractions, and stopped taking the Entonox (no pain relief at all! I am a hardass.). This carried on for nearly two hours, during which time I repeatedly requested an epidural and was repeatedly told (very nicely, though) that it would probably not be worth it. However, before long I was shouting "I don't care if you have to keep your quotas down or whatever, I wanted an epidural and YOU wouldn't give me one!" In retrospect, I'm pleased that I made it through without one, but it's myself I'm pleased with, not the staff. They should have given me what I wanted. I was given fluids in an IV in my left hand, and I remember informng them that I give blood from my right, and that they might have more luck finding a vein there!
What nobody knew at this stage was that the baby's cord was wrapped three times around the neck, which was why the baby wasn't making progress down the birth canal. A (male) obsetrician appeared at this point (to be honest, plenty of people were in and out of that room over those few hours, and I could not tell you how many or who the majority of them were. My mind was elsewhere) and he said that they were going to 'give the baby a hand' getting out, since progress had stalled and the baby's heartbeat had slowed. Whatever my feelings on interventions during birth were prior to this, this was brilliant news. As I was moaning and complaining about the pain, a midwife said, "it's 3.00pm. Your baby will be born by 10 past". The best thing I had heard all day.
The end of the bed came away, my head went back, the stirrups appeared and up went my legs. I was given four injections of local anaesthetic and an episiotomy (cut thorught the perenium) was perfomed. Yes, it's an absolute cariacature of childbirth, and it was quite a bloodbath (and have I mentioned the shit yet? Yes, I shat myself while I was pushing. And couldn't care less). A suction cup (ventouse) was attached to the baby's head, and with a few more pushes and contractions, the head was out. I asked why I couldn't hear the baby. I still don't understand why babies don't cry as soon as their head's born! A couple more contractions and pushes and my husband cried "It's a boy! Oh, it's S------!" and my brand new son was born.
He was a huge baby - 9lb 4oz, I shortly learned - and he had shat himself too, and was grey from the birth goo and the effect of the birth on his circulation. They plonked him on my tummy and the first thing I saw was this enormous, round, grey baby bum with a brown anus! Nice! I didn't even see his face until minutes later, when the cord had been cut and he'd been wrapped in a blanket. Next time, I'm going to insist that all that can wait until I've seen my baby's face and kissed it. Nor did I see the placenta, which I really wanted a look at (see 'the show', above). In all honesty, my prevailing feeling at that point was relief and gladness at the pregnancy, labour and birth being over, rather than joy or excitement at meeting S. That sounds awful, but in my defence, I had had virtually no sleep, there was no food in my system, I had never experienced pain like it, and I was rather out of it from the Entonox. And I doubt I'm the first new mother to have felt like that! giving birth was simultaneously the best and worst experience of my life, although I would not come to see it as the best for little while. Predictably, the first thing I said was, "I'm never doing that again!" The midwives all laughed and said, "they all say that," so I pointed to my husband and said, "well, you're having the next one then!" And I meant it.
Apparently I only swore once and only told my husband to shut up once - less than on a normal day!
I've been writing this as much for me as for anyone else to read it. While women the world over give birth every minute, I have done it but once, and it was the experience of my life. Nothing else comes close. Every woman's birth story is unique and I'm glad I've now got mine on record. Having said that, it's true that nature causes you to forget the pain, so despite this being a pretty accurate account, I know something is missing. We all know that if any mother had an accurate memory of giving birth, she would never put herself through it again! I've got a lot more to tell about the first days and months of S's life, and hope I can continue to write on here a little more often. But now it's teatime.
Anthea
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Part 1 of many
OK, I've finally found 5 minutes to sit down and write something on here for the first time in about 8 months!
The birth of my baby seems like as good a place to start as any.
After two weeks of curries, 'romantic nights', long walks, membrane sweeps (if you have to ask...) and abject boredom, baby was showing no signs of making an appearance. In fact, the head was partly engaged and then went back up again! I had to be induced. I walked to the hospital on the Friday night and had prostoglandins (synthetic hormones) injected up me - nice. Normally, this method of induction takes about 6 hours to work and is not successful first time round for first time mothers, so the plan was that I would have it done at bedtime, sleep, and then they'd have another go in the morning which was much more likely to work.
So. My husband stayed with me while the induction took place, then got me settled and went home to get some sleep himself. Unbeknownst to him, the hormones took effect very quickly and my labour began at about 1.00am. It felt like back pain, but after a while a midwife confirmed that the pains were settling into fairly regular contractions. I was alone on the ward, in the dark, with a skeleton weekend staff whom I barely saw. Not how I'd pictured my labour. No-one asked me about my birth plan, I was too intimidated to ask for help with my TENS machine (so didn't use it in the end) and had no-one to rub my back or coach me through the pains. At 3.00am I decided I wanted to phone my husband and get him to come in so approached the front desk and informed the woman (don't know if she was a midwife, nurse or receptionist) that there would soon be a man arriving and she would need to let him in. "Why?" she asked (!!!???!) "Because I'm in pain and I want my husband to help me through it," I replied (!!!!!!!) "I'm afraid visiting hours are between 8.00am and 8.00pm," she informed me. Fucking hell. So I spent the rest of the night without pain relief (I wanted massage and the TENS machine), labouring alone in the dark, and fairly scared since this was my first time. I do plan to have another baby, and if the same thing happens again, I shall shout and scream and stamp my foot until I am allowed to have my husband with me. I mean, if we'd turned up at midnight with me having gone into labour spontaneously, would they have sent him away and told him to come back at 8.00am? I think not. The more I look back on this, the more outraged I am. I'm thinking of officially complaining. Any thoughts?
Anyway. I did take a bath after this in a huge double tub. I found it highly effective - in fact, although I'm usually happier on dry land and a bit scared of water, I had really enjoyed baths and swimming throughout my pregnancy - in terms of pain relief and calming me down. At 7.00am I rang my husband. He answered the phone and apparently I sounded really down (not surprising, considering the night I'd had!). He took this to mean that I was annoyed that the induction hadn't worked, when it was quite the opposite! "See you in an hour," I said, but 15 minutes later I the pains were getting worse so I rang him and told him to come straight there, to hell with their visiting hours. At 7.30 he arrived and was again informed of the visiting hours. "Is that going to be a problem?" he demanded, and they grudgingly let him in.
From then until about lunchtime is a bit hazy now. I walked around for pain relief and vomited on another bed ("You must really stay near your bed!" I was curtly told - minutes before another midwife recommended I try walking around!). I used Entonox (gas and air) for pain relief, which I loved. My husband massaged my back for what seemed to him like hours on end. I can't really remember much more than this as I was quite high on Entonox and had had virtually no sleep during the night so kept dozing off between contractions.
Right, baby is now demanding milk so I will return shortly with the next instalment!
Anthea
The birth of my baby seems like as good a place to start as any.
After two weeks of curries, 'romantic nights', long walks, membrane sweeps (if you have to ask...) and abject boredom, baby was showing no signs of making an appearance. In fact, the head was partly engaged and then went back up again! I had to be induced. I walked to the hospital on the Friday night and had prostoglandins (synthetic hormones) injected up me - nice. Normally, this method of induction takes about 6 hours to work and is not successful first time round for first time mothers, so the plan was that I would have it done at bedtime, sleep, and then they'd have another go in the morning which was much more likely to work.
So. My husband stayed with me while the induction took place, then got me settled and went home to get some sleep himself. Unbeknownst to him, the hormones took effect very quickly and my labour began at about 1.00am. It felt like back pain, but after a while a midwife confirmed that the pains were settling into fairly regular contractions. I was alone on the ward, in the dark, with a skeleton weekend staff whom I barely saw. Not how I'd pictured my labour. No-one asked me about my birth plan, I was too intimidated to ask for help with my TENS machine (so didn't use it in the end) and had no-one to rub my back or coach me through the pains. At 3.00am I decided I wanted to phone my husband and get him to come in so approached the front desk and informed the woman (don't know if she was a midwife, nurse or receptionist) that there would soon be a man arriving and she would need to let him in. "Why?" she asked (!!!???!) "Because I'm in pain and I want my husband to help me through it," I replied (!!!!!!!) "I'm afraid visiting hours are between 8.00am and 8.00pm," she informed me. Fucking hell. So I spent the rest of the night without pain relief (I wanted massage and the TENS machine), labouring alone in the dark, and fairly scared since this was my first time. I do plan to have another baby, and if the same thing happens again, I shall shout and scream and stamp my foot until I am allowed to have my husband with me. I mean, if we'd turned up at midnight with me having gone into labour spontaneously, would they have sent him away and told him to come back at 8.00am? I think not. The more I look back on this, the more outraged I am. I'm thinking of officially complaining. Any thoughts?
Anyway. I did take a bath after this in a huge double tub. I found it highly effective - in fact, although I'm usually happier on dry land and a bit scared of water, I had really enjoyed baths and swimming throughout my pregnancy - in terms of pain relief and calming me down. At 7.00am I rang my husband. He answered the phone and apparently I sounded really down (not surprising, considering the night I'd had!). He took this to mean that I was annoyed that the induction hadn't worked, when it was quite the opposite! "See you in an hour," I said, but 15 minutes later I the pains were getting worse so I rang him and told him to come straight there, to hell with their visiting hours. At 7.30 he arrived and was again informed of the visiting hours. "Is that going to be a problem?" he demanded, and they grudgingly let him in.
From then until about lunchtime is a bit hazy now. I walked around for pain relief and vomited on another bed ("You must really stay near your bed!" I was curtly told - minutes before another midwife recommended I try walking around!). I used Entonox (gas and air) for pain relief, which I loved. My husband massaged my back for what seemed to him like hours on end. I can't really remember much more than this as I was quite high on Entonox and had had virtually no sleep during the night so kept dozing off between contractions.
Right, baby is now demanding milk so I will return shortly with the next instalment!
Anthea
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
A post-holiday update
Well, we're back! Mike, Owen and I got back late last night after our two week visit to the UK over Christmas and the New Year. It was fantastic, and just the right length. I'm so glad we made it over there with the babba, even if the travel itself was a complete nightmare. For future reference, flying for eight hours with a ratty, tube-fed baby with GERD is NOT recommended. On the way there he screamed for about six straight hours, and I'm not exaggerating an ounce. He was so much better on the way back, but I think that's because the timing of the flight was more suitable and he's a little under the weather (meaning he's sleepier than usual).
I think he's caught some nasty bug from me, because while we were over there I came down with some vile throat thing that made swallowing almost an impossibility and I completely lost my voice. I also had a cough, which is the single most irritating symptom of any illness in the world ever. And that's the truth. You can quote me on it. Now Owen has the cough and if it's no better by tomorrow when his nurse comes to visit then it's off to the doctor we go. Sigh.
ANYWAY, back to the UK. Some interesting stuff happened, including noticing the formula we'd packed so carfeully was an astonishing three months out of date and we'd been using it since the start of December. As we get it shipped directly to us by our insurance agent it was their fault - they'd sent us cans with September's date on and we don't get through it slowly enough for it to have been some stuffy cans I'd let fester at the back of the cupboard. Plus, having worked in retail, I'm really, really careful about rotating our "stock", for this very reason. Oh, and ALL of the 14 cans were out of date, so their entire shipment was old and crusty. I contacted them from the UK and threatened them with legal action if they didn't get us replacement stuff, to which they rightfully shat themselves and fell over each other to help us. In the end we got a good enough replacement to last us the rest of the visit and my insurance agents are footing the bill. Quite right, for making me feed my son potentially dangerous milk.
Owen got spoilt rotten over Christmas, which was absolutely fantastic. An award for Outstanding Contribution to the Turner Family goes to his Grandad (my dad) for being the ONLY member of my family to be proactive and learn how to feed Owen by himself. My mum did one feed supervised, and then always found an excuse to bugger off when it needed doing again. Oh well. Owen also discovered the art of grabbing the mouth and cheeks of whomever is holding him, which has caused endless amusement for me and a few scratches near my ear lobes. I think he's so funny, but I always have done. He just has to raise his eyebrows when I ask him a question, or punch me in the face so he can grab my chin flab and I crack up.
So yes, a marvellous time was had by all. We went all over the shop, despite the "horrific" weather the UK is having at the moment. "Horrific", my arse. My driveway is "horrific"! And we're expecting another 10" overnight, so you can feck off if you think I'm shovelling my way out of the house at all for the next week. Owen and I are going to hunker down, watch movies and eat Cadbury's chocolate until winter buggers off. Then we'll reminisce about visiting Oswestry, Shrewsbury, Wrexham, Aberystwyth, Rhyll, Blackpool, Isleworth, Hounslow and Richmond and how much fun we had at my nephew Stanley's Christening where Owen also got blessed. My only regret is that the suitcases weren't big enough for more chocolate.
So now it's back to reality. Back to medical appointments, battling reflux and being alone with Owen during the week. Back to the depression, I suppose, because for a while there I seemed to be recovering. With all the activity and celebrations I felt better than I had in months, but now I'm back home I can feel the dark shadows hovering outside the door again. I suppose I'll just have to suck it up and get on with it, because I don't really have any other choice. And speaking of medical conditions, I think I MUST be anaemic again because I've started getting very odd bruising on my legs. Really big, dark, painful ones too, but I don't remember ever banging my legs into something. And even if I have, it's certainly not with the frequency with which the bruises have been appearing. I know I ought to get to a doctor and have a blood test done, but I'm beginning to loathe all the paperwork. Also... I researched leg bruises and fatigue online and one of the scarier explanations is leukemia, which I am really not prepared to even contemplate at this point. So I'm going to bury my head in the sand a little longer, see if things improve and up my iron intake. Fingers crossed.
Even though I loved being away, and even though coming home means facing Owen's upcoming surgery, it's so GOOD to be home!
I think he's caught some nasty bug from me, because while we were over there I came down with some vile throat thing that made swallowing almost an impossibility and I completely lost my voice. I also had a cough, which is the single most irritating symptom of any illness in the world ever. And that's the truth. You can quote me on it. Now Owen has the cough and if it's no better by tomorrow when his nurse comes to visit then it's off to the doctor we go. Sigh.
ANYWAY, back to the UK. Some interesting stuff happened, including noticing the formula we'd packed so carfeully was an astonishing three months out of date and we'd been using it since the start of December. As we get it shipped directly to us by our insurance agent it was their fault - they'd sent us cans with September's date on and we don't get through it slowly enough for it to have been some stuffy cans I'd let fester at the back of the cupboard. Plus, having worked in retail, I'm really, really careful about rotating our "stock", for this very reason. Oh, and ALL of the 14 cans were out of date, so their entire shipment was old and crusty. I contacted them from the UK and threatened them with legal action if they didn't get us replacement stuff, to which they rightfully shat themselves and fell over each other to help us. In the end we got a good enough replacement to last us the rest of the visit and my insurance agents are footing the bill. Quite right, for making me feed my son potentially dangerous milk.
Owen got spoilt rotten over Christmas, which was absolutely fantastic. An award for Outstanding Contribution to the Turner Family goes to his Grandad (my dad) for being the ONLY member of my family to be proactive and learn how to feed Owen by himself. My mum did one feed supervised, and then always found an excuse to bugger off when it needed doing again. Oh well. Owen also discovered the art of grabbing the mouth and cheeks of whomever is holding him, which has caused endless amusement for me and a few scratches near my ear lobes. I think he's so funny, but I always have done. He just has to raise his eyebrows when I ask him a question, or punch me in the face so he can grab my chin flab and I crack up.
So yes, a marvellous time was had by all. We went all over the shop, despite the "horrific" weather the UK is having at the moment. "Horrific", my arse. My driveway is "horrific"! And we're expecting another 10" overnight, so you can feck off if you think I'm shovelling my way out of the house at all for the next week. Owen and I are going to hunker down, watch movies and eat Cadbury's chocolate until winter buggers off. Then we'll reminisce about visiting Oswestry, Shrewsbury, Wrexham, Aberystwyth, Rhyll, Blackpool, Isleworth, Hounslow and Richmond and how much fun we had at my nephew Stanley's Christening where Owen also got blessed. My only regret is that the suitcases weren't big enough for more chocolate.
So now it's back to reality. Back to medical appointments, battling reflux and being alone with Owen during the week. Back to the depression, I suppose, because for a while there I seemed to be recovering. With all the activity and celebrations I felt better than I had in months, but now I'm back home I can feel the dark shadows hovering outside the door again. I suppose I'll just have to suck it up and get on with it, because I don't really have any other choice. And speaking of medical conditions, I think I MUST be anaemic again because I've started getting very odd bruising on my legs. Really big, dark, painful ones too, but I don't remember ever banging my legs into something. And even if I have, it's certainly not with the frequency with which the bruises have been appearing. I know I ought to get to a doctor and have a blood test done, but I'm beginning to loathe all the paperwork. Also... I researched leg bruises and fatigue online and one of the scarier explanations is leukemia, which I am really not prepared to even contemplate at this point. So I'm going to bury my head in the sand a little longer, see if things improve and up my iron intake. Fingers crossed.
Even though I loved being away, and even though coming home means facing Owen's upcoming surgery, it's so GOOD to be home!
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