Wow. My life in the last few weeks has taken such a dramatic turnabout that I'm exhausted just sitting here typing it out. And I'm not complaining, either... it's just... different.
So, I got the job I wanted, and I organised my life around a brand new routine. I organised it. Me. Not my husband; not my friends or family. Me. I, and I alone, set up Little O's new daycare arrangements; I called my mother-in-law to come out for two weeks to help us transition everything; I got the job and bought new work clothes; I researched the best route for avoiding traffic; and I typed up the daily instruction sheets for Little O's carers to follow. It has been a bit of a marathon, to be honest, but I felt as though life was slowly coming together this weekend when my mother-in-law returned home and my husband and I were facing our first week of full-time employment and daycare simultaneously.
Then Little O got sick.
Saturday morning he came down with the most unpleasant stomach flu I've ever seen, and by Sunday he had a raging fever and kindly donated his germs to his parents. My husband and I therefore came down with the same stomach flu, which crippled us entirely and made the entire house stink of illness, poo, vomit, and stale laundry. We both took Monday off, which would normally have been something to celebrate, but instead we just rolled around the living room carpet in a state of helpless misery. It was like being pregnant again, but this time my husband felt just as bad and was no help whatsoever. Incidentally... my husband is NOT good at being ill. Our cat developed a limp over the weekend, to add further insult to injury, so seeing as we had taken the day off, I sucked up my stale, sickly breath, and took him to the vet. I also ran to get some groceries and made soup for lunch... all before 12pm and while having stomach cramps from the flu bug. I returned home to find my husband laying pathetically on the couch, a quivering hand extended in my direction to pass him a sip of water for his parched throat. He hadn't done a single thing in my absence.
That man got no sympathy. He also got no sympathy when I got a phone call telling me Little O's glasses had arrived and we needed to take him down to the opticians the same day to get them fitted correctly. My husband did not want to come, but there was no way in hell I was doing ALL the chores by myself so he grumpily accompanied me.
So, bearing all this unpleasantness in mind, Monday evening came around with a significant improvement in mine and my husband's health, but none in Little O's. In fact, he seemed worse than on Saturday. We gave him a nice warm bath and attempted to put him into bed for an early night, but he seemed so fitful and restless that I decided to take him into Prompt Care. My husband was extremely reluctant, but I had a niggling feeling that all wasn't right, so I got my way and off we set. When we arrived we were seen by a nurse and then a doctor, who both agreed Little O needed some blood tests and possibly IV fluids to get him feeling better. We don't like the ER attached to our local Prompt Care (been there before and they look at Little O like he's a fuckin' unicorn), so we told the nice doctor we'd take him up to CHOW to their children's ER instead.
WELL!! On the way home, my husband said he didn't want to go all the way to Milwaukee (a good 40 min drive away) only to sit in an ER all night and be told nothing was wrong, so he turned the car into our house. I understood. He felt unwell. I felt unwell. Little O needed fluids, which we could give him at home via his feeding pump. After all, one of the advantages to having to feed a child with a pump is that you can keep them hydrated even when they're refusing to eat or drink. I understood. I strongly disagreed, but I understood. I pointed out that I've never once been wrong about taking Little O in to be seen, and I've never created an emergency where there hasn't been one. I've always trusted my instincts, and they've always been right.
But I understood. And I let it slide. I agreed, against my better judgement, against my Mama-instincts, against everything my heart and head were telling me, to keep Little O at home in his own bed and to allow my husband's body time to fully recover. (Never mind the fact I was also still feeling shit - I'd sorta forgotten about that in all the fuss over my baby's health.) We spent the night at home and I took Tuesday off work to give Little O some extra care and love. By this point, I must have changed over 100 diapers in about 72 hours, and they were still coming strong. My baby's bottom was red and raw and he was so fussy and irritable that he was almost inconsolable non-stop.
By Wednesday morning I decided to take him into daycare and go back to work myself. I felt miserable having to choose work over him, but I've just started a new job! What else was I supposed to do? It also isn't helped my the fact my husband leaves for work at 5.30am, two whole hours before I do. If Little O is sick, he won't know about it until he's already been at work for several hours... so I have to make the decision. Anyway, I told the daycare to call my husband with any concerns as he was 'on duty', and drove in.
Around 3pm I got a call saying Little O had a fever. The daycare called my husband but he wasn't answering either his cell phone or his work number, and they really felt Little O needed to be seen by a doctor immediately. I was SO angry! I'd been fretting and worrying all day about my baby; why hadn't my husband?! Why wasn't his cell phone glued to his head? Why wasn't he chewing his nails to the quick every time his work phone rang? I was so mad I had him paged. The last time I did that I was in premature labor, so he knew something was up when I finally got him on the phone. And he left work. Immediately. Because he had no other choice.
Little O was admitted to hospital Wednesday night for severe dehydration and dangerously high sodium levels. I'm typing this out on my laptop in a hospital room while he naps peacefully, comfortable for the first time in nearly a week. It's Thursday afternoon and he's hopefully coming home tomorrow. I feel three things: 1) Anger towards my husband for not taking Little O to CHOW on Monday night; 2) Guilt at my own decision to keep him at home, despite my instincts telling me otherwise; and 3) Happiness that Little O is finally getting the help and comfort that he needs to feel better. But mainly anger and guilt.
I spent the night here; my husband went home. I took today and tomorrow off; my husband plans on working a full shift both days. I am proactive in seeking out support and assistance; my husband won't even speak to his HR team about FMLA law. It's deeply, deeply upsetting that I am still expected to carry the burden of Little O's care while also holding down (or not) a full-time job. Right now I'm seriously considering quitting work. I don't want to, but I also don't want to be 'that' employee who always has to take time off for her child. I don't want to get fired. I don't want that on my record. I don't want to let my new employers down, who have been wonderful and kind and generous, but whose patience will not last forever.
I was so invigorated starting a new job. Today I feel utterly exhausted again, and back in the same place I was a month ago.
Tina.
(I wish this were a happier post, but it isn't. So I'll round it off with a happy ending instead: Happy Anniversary, Anthea and Husband! Four years of marriage, and ten years together. Well done you.)
Showing posts with label Husband. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Husband. Show all posts
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Monday, March 15, 2010
Day Eight and Surgery Stuff
Weight: 214.1 lb
Well, I dropped over 5 lb, which is pretty cool! Diet went really, really well last week until Friday, when I abandoned all pretenses at the hospital and shared a Galaxy bar my fantastic friend J had imported from the UK. I think we all deserved it, given the situation. And I'm back on track now.
Owen's surgery went very well, although his left eye isn't nearly as open as his right and this is causing both me and his surgeon a bit of concern. If it's just some extra swelling squeezing it shut then given enough time, it will look the same as the right. However, if the stitches have come open or Owen has rubbed his eye somehow, then he'll have to go back to the hospital for an adjustment. Other than that though, things have been going well. We have to apply an ointment to the corneas and incisions four times a day to help things heal and stop his eyes drying out, which is utterly exhausting and Owen absolutely loathes it. In addition, as he also had tubes put in his ears to relieve the excess fluid build-up that was preventing his eardrums from vibrating properly, we have to put drops in his ear canals twice daily. He doesn't like that much either. AND we have to give him antibiotics by mouth (read: tube) four times a day AND cover his eyes in these strange metal shields at night to help keep things moist. He likes none of these activities and I'm so pleased the surgeon said we can start cutting back on everything from today.
You know, I'm really really tired. I feel as though I can never sleep enough, although I get around seven hours a night usually, and catch up on naps at the weekend. I think the burden of caring for Owen is just wearing me down, although I don't resent doing it. I just wish I were able to trust someone, anyone else to do it for a few days to give me a rest. I want a week off. It occurred to me today (sitting on the loo, of course), that I haven't had a real day off since before Owen was born. Such is the life of a mother who stays at home, I guess. Mike gets days off from work but even when that happens, I'm still working. It may be my fault, but I can't even relinquish control to him when he is home, because he often forgets the most basic of Owen's needs. Take Owen's nighttime routine, for example: every night we have the same routine of medications, changing into pyjamas and a bedtime feed. Every other night we bathe Owen as well. With all the extra gumph post-surgery, this routine is currently taking us a good 45 minutes, which we start at 9.00pm in order to start his bedtime feed at 10.00pm. SO... I always have one eye on the clock, making sure we get things started on time, and when 9pm rolls around I turn to Mike and tell him it's time. His usual response? "What needs doing?"
"What ALWAYS needs doing, Mike?"
Sigh. Then he'll act surprised at my tone and ask what he should start doing. Oh, I don't know! How about you just START doing SOMETHING? I feel I need to double-check everything he's up to, just to make sure he doesn't miss a dose of a medication, puts a new gauze around Owen's mic-key button, or even just gets the right volume of formula ready. If I don't, something always goes amiss and I'm really tired of being the safety net.
Don't get me wrong: Mike is a fantastic father and I do think that if I left him and Owen alone for a weekend that Owen would eventually get everything he needs, but to me that's not good enough. I need a partner who is on the same wavelength and is already thinking about what step comes next before I have to turn to him at 9pm and tell him so. I need a 24-hour father, just like I'm a 24-hour mother.
Tina.
Well, I dropped over 5 lb, which is pretty cool! Diet went really, really well last week until Friday, when I abandoned all pretenses at the hospital and shared a Galaxy bar my fantastic friend J had imported from the UK. I think we all deserved it, given the situation. And I'm back on track now.
Owen's surgery went very well, although his left eye isn't nearly as open as his right and this is causing both me and his surgeon a bit of concern. If it's just some extra swelling squeezing it shut then given enough time, it will look the same as the right. However, if the stitches have come open or Owen has rubbed his eye somehow, then he'll have to go back to the hospital for an adjustment. Other than that though, things have been going well. We have to apply an ointment to the corneas and incisions four times a day to help things heal and stop his eyes drying out, which is utterly exhausting and Owen absolutely loathes it. In addition, as he also had tubes put in his ears to relieve the excess fluid build-up that was preventing his eardrums from vibrating properly, we have to put drops in his ear canals twice daily. He doesn't like that much either. AND we have to give him antibiotics by mouth (read: tube) four times a day AND cover his eyes in these strange metal shields at night to help keep things moist. He likes none of these activities and I'm so pleased the surgeon said we can start cutting back on everything from today.
You know, I'm really really tired. I feel as though I can never sleep enough, although I get around seven hours a night usually, and catch up on naps at the weekend. I think the burden of caring for Owen is just wearing me down, although I don't resent doing it. I just wish I were able to trust someone, anyone else to do it for a few days to give me a rest. I want a week off. It occurred to me today (sitting on the loo, of course), that I haven't had a real day off since before Owen was born. Such is the life of a mother who stays at home, I guess. Mike gets days off from work but even when that happens, I'm still working. It may be my fault, but I can't even relinquish control to him when he is home, because he often forgets the most basic of Owen's needs. Take Owen's nighttime routine, for example: every night we have the same routine of medications, changing into pyjamas and a bedtime feed. Every other night we bathe Owen as well. With all the extra gumph post-surgery, this routine is currently taking us a good 45 minutes, which we start at 9.00pm in order to start his bedtime feed at 10.00pm. SO... I always have one eye on the clock, making sure we get things started on time, and when 9pm rolls around I turn to Mike and tell him it's time. His usual response? "What needs doing?"
"What ALWAYS needs doing, Mike?"
Sigh. Then he'll act surprised at my tone and ask what he should start doing. Oh, I don't know! How about you just START doing SOMETHING? I feel I need to double-check everything he's up to, just to make sure he doesn't miss a dose of a medication, puts a new gauze around Owen's mic-key button, or even just gets the right volume of formula ready. If I don't, something always goes amiss and I'm really tired of being the safety net.
Don't get me wrong: Mike is a fantastic father and I do think that if I left him and Owen alone for a weekend that Owen would eventually get everything he needs, but to me that's not good enough. I need a partner who is on the same wavelength and is already thinking about what step comes next before I have to turn to him at 9pm and tell him so. I need a 24-hour father, just like I'm a 24-hour mother.
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
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
The way we think.
The other half and I got into a major, major fight on Sunday over something so small and petty I can't bear to think about it. What I do have to remember though, is how completely irrational I was and how, even though I could hear the words coming out of my mouth, see how much I was hurting him, and know I probably looked and sounded like a teenager, I wasn't able to do a single thing about it.
It's mad, this depression. It makes you do and say things you'd never have dreamt of doing before. After the fight, when things were calmer and we'd agreed to talk about what had happened, I asked Mike whether he liked me anymore. He said no. He told me he loves me still, but he doesn't really like me much these days. And who can blame him? I'm a complete misery and I pick on him mercilessly. I'm on a deadline with a copyediting project at the moment, so I asked him to take care of Owen and a few things around the house on Sunday so I could work in peace upstairs. At 1pm he was still playing video games, so I sat on the stairs and reminded him of our agreement: he works during the week, I work weekends. He apologized and once I'd gone back upstairs he got to work.
The thing is, Mike's brain works differently to mine. In my mind, the things we needed doing were for the benefit of our Book Club guests coming over that night. That meant clean bathrooms, vacuumed floors and tidy rooms. In Mike's mind it meant ripping up the rest of the kitchen linoleum because he was embarrased it was still there. Which created more mess, which meant everything was still in transition at 5.30pm when I needed to be in the kitchen preparing food. So we fought. And I was irrational. In fact, I was completely off my fucking head because he asked me to get something out of his car (a shop-vac, brought home from work to vacuum large splinters and particles safely), and I STORMED out to get it, STORMED back inside, threw the thing on the floor and slammed the door behind me. The reason? I was cooking and even though he was shirtless and shoeless and it was below freezing outside, I didn't want to be interrupted.
If I weren't depressed, I would never, ever have behaved that way. Getting something out of the car to help out my partner would have been second nature, and once everything had blown over and we were like old times yesterday, I would have done it for him again in a heartbeat. But when I'm in that moment, and the cloudiness is fogging my brain, it's really, really hard to see and behave clearly. I have no idea how to change things, either. It's like I'm watching myself on a screen somewhere, half the time. I know I'm hurting Mike and I know I'm simply terrible to live with, but I just don't know how to stop it. How do you stop a runaway train?
Tina.
It's mad, this depression. It makes you do and say things you'd never have dreamt of doing before. After the fight, when things were calmer and we'd agreed to talk about what had happened, I asked Mike whether he liked me anymore. He said no. He told me he loves me still, but he doesn't really like me much these days. And who can blame him? I'm a complete misery and I pick on him mercilessly. I'm on a deadline with a copyediting project at the moment, so I asked him to take care of Owen and a few things around the house on Sunday so I could work in peace upstairs. At 1pm he was still playing video games, so I sat on the stairs and reminded him of our agreement: he works during the week, I work weekends. He apologized and once I'd gone back upstairs he got to work.
The thing is, Mike's brain works differently to mine. In my mind, the things we needed doing were for the benefit of our Book Club guests coming over that night. That meant clean bathrooms, vacuumed floors and tidy rooms. In Mike's mind it meant ripping up the rest of the kitchen linoleum because he was embarrased it was still there. Which created more mess, which meant everything was still in transition at 5.30pm when I needed to be in the kitchen preparing food. So we fought. And I was irrational. In fact, I was completely off my fucking head because he asked me to get something out of his car (a shop-vac, brought home from work to vacuum large splinters and particles safely), and I STORMED out to get it, STORMED back inside, threw the thing on the floor and slammed the door behind me. The reason? I was cooking and even though he was shirtless and shoeless and it was below freezing outside, I didn't want to be interrupted.
If I weren't depressed, I would never, ever have behaved that way. Getting something out of the car to help out my partner would have been second nature, and once everything had blown over and we were like old times yesterday, I would have done it for him again in a heartbeat. But when I'm in that moment, and the cloudiness is fogging my brain, it's really, really hard to see and behave clearly. I have no idea how to change things, either. It's like I'm watching myself on a screen somewhere, half the time. I know I'm hurting Mike and I know I'm simply terrible to live with, but I just don't know how to stop it. How do you stop a runaway train?
Tina.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Unexpected challenges
There are some typical things about being a new mother I've found very challenging, such as getting enough sleep and trying to cope with tiredness when that isn't possible, but I've also discovered parenting Owen has some rather unexpected challenges too:
1. Keeping up with laundry is sooooo hard sometimes. Owen's reflux means he changes outfits at least four times a day, and we get through burp cloths and blankets like you wouldn't believe. I can usually attribute the mood I'm in as to whether we have clean burp cloths or not, as I feel a thousand times happier knowing there's a clean stack somewhere.
2. The bickering and constant arguments with my husband. Mike and I have always had a fiery relationship and fighting for us meant we got to make up afterwards, but these days we spend more time bickering and sniping at each other than smiling and laughing. We still talk, but it's always either about Owen or how one of us is failing at some aspect of the housework, and it can be completely exhausting at times.
3. One thing not every parent has to endure is the feeding routine we have with Owen. Feeding him with a pump every four hours, followed by at least an hour and a half of continuous, hand-held venting, is monotonous and time-consuming. I've said it before and I'll say it again, but if he ate from a bottle or the breast and didn't have reflux, I'd have so much time on my hands I wouldn't know what to do with it.
4. I wrote in my last post about how I've found it difficult accepting my new title in life. I'm still finding that hard.
5. Keeping the house clutter-free. This is SO tricky! Mike and I have a policy of doing at least ten minutes of tidying-up and/or cleaning every evening so that the chores don't build up too much before the weekend, but the CLUTTER! I spent time last week purchasing a couple of wheely carts with drawers to organise Owen's medical supplies and the kitchen is now a lot neater, but the rest of the house just gets overwhelming sometimes. How does a small boy generate so much mess?! Between dirty laundry (there are those burp cloths again), small toys, feeding supplies and the crap Mike and I seem determined to litter the living room carpet with (currently new kitchen brochures and bill stubs), I can count on one hand the amount of square feet of tidy space I can see from here.
6. Leaving the house. As with any small baby, this is a challenge, but it was very unexpected nonetheless. Owen used to screeeeeam whenever we went in the car and he's got a lot better now, but he still throws up the minute we go over a bump and organising a time to actually get to an appointment is bloody hard to start with. I have stopped making appointments for the morning as the earliest feasible time I can get out without drama is 12.30pm, but it's so limiting and I do miss that freedom to just jump up and go.
7. The sheer boredom and loneliness of having a baby was very unexpected. I won't go into too much detail, but I believe they have really contributed to my post-partum depression. I try to get out as much as I can to visit friends or attend baby groups, but as I said before, leaving the house isn't always easy...
8. I think finding time to be myself without being Owen's Mama is kinda tricky, too. Don't get me wrong: I love my little one and the thought of everything we've been through with him and how at any minute things could have turned out very differently scares me half to death. But there existed a person before Owen Henri and when he's grown up and left the house that person will still be here. I just have to make sure I don't lose her in the meantime.
9. The guilt! Goodness me, this is a big one. I feel guilty ALL THE TIME. I feel guilty that I resent getting out of bed to attend to him; I feel guilty when he's asleep and I'm relaxing with a book instead of washing the dishes. I feel guilty that I don't sleep with my husband enough and when we do get down to business, I feel guilty that I'm not looking after Owen. I feel guilty when he spits-up (irrational, but true) and I feel guilty when I spend money on new clothes for him. I feel guilty that my body doesn't look the way it used to; I feel guilty that I indulge in cookies and ice cream when I should be eating grapes to shift these last few pounds. I feel guilty for disturbing him and taking him to all his medical appointments even though they're for his own benefit and I feel guilty if I cancel one because one of us simply isn't up to the challenge of fighting a medical institution that day. Most of all, I feel guilty that my body make Owen the way he is. I feel guilty that my egg gave him those crazy chromosomes and that my body pushed him out when he wasn't ready. I feel guilty that I couldn't breastfeed him and I feel guilty that I had to leave him at the hospital for so long. I feel guilty ALL THE TIME.
10. The last unexpected challenge I've found (although I'm sure I'll think of more before my next post) is how much love I have for this little boy. You may not see that as a challenge, but can you imaging having so much love in you that it breaks your heart? If we have one, how on earth will I find room to love another baby as much as Owen?
Tina.
1. Keeping up with laundry is sooooo hard sometimes. Owen's reflux means he changes outfits at least four times a day, and we get through burp cloths and blankets like you wouldn't believe. I can usually attribute the mood I'm in as to whether we have clean burp cloths or not, as I feel a thousand times happier knowing there's a clean stack somewhere.
2. The bickering and constant arguments with my husband. Mike and I have always had a fiery relationship and fighting for us meant we got to make up afterwards, but these days we spend more time bickering and sniping at each other than smiling and laughing. We still talk, but it's always either about Owen or how one of us is failing at some aspect of the housework, and it can be completely exhausting at times.
3. One thing not every parent has to endure is the feeding routine we have with Owen. Feeding him with a pump every four hours, followed by at least an hour and a half of continuous, hand-held venting, is monotonous and time-consuming. I've said it before and I'll say it again, but if he ate from a bottle or the breast and didn't have reflux, I'd have so much time on my hands I wouldn't know what to do with it.
4. I wrote in my last post about how I've found it difficult accepting my new title in life. I'm still finding that hard.
5. Keeping the house clutter-free. This is SO tricky! Mike and I have a policy of doing at least ten minutes of tidying-up and/or cleaning every evening so that the chores don't build up too much before the weekend, but the CLUTTER! I spent time last week purchasing a couple of wheely carts with drawers to organise Owen's medical supplies and the kitchen is now a lot neater, but the rest of the house just gets overwhelming sometimes. How does a small boy generate so much mess?! Between dirty laundry (there are those burp cloths again), small toys, feeding supplies and the crap Mike and I seem determined to litter the living room carpet with (currently new kitchen brochures and bill stubs), I can count on one hand the amount of square feet of tidy space I can see from here.
6. Leaving the house. As with any small baby, this is a challenge, but it was very unexpected nonetheless. Owen used to screeeeeam whenever we went in the car and he's got a lot better now, but he still throws up the minute we go over a bump and organising a time to actually get to an appointment is bloody hard to start with. I have stopped making appointments for the morning as the earliest feasible time I can get out without drama is 12.30pm, but it's so limiting and I do miss that freedom to just jump up and go.
7. The sheer boredom and loneliness of having a baby was very unexpected. I won't go into too much detail, but I believe they have really contributed to my post-partum depression. I try to get out as much as I can to visit friends or attend baby groups, but as I said before, leaving the house isn't always easy...
8. I think finding time to be myself without being Owen's Mama is kinda tricky, too. Don't get me wrong: I love my little one and the thought of everything we've been through with him and how at any minute things could have turned out very differently scares me half to death. But there existed a person before Owen Henri and when he's grown up and left the house that person will still be here. I just have to make sure I don't lose her in the meantime.
9. The guilt! Goodness me, this is a big one. I feel guilty ALL THE TIME. I feel guilty that I resent getting out of bed to attend to him; I feel guilty when he's asleep and I'm relaxing with a book instead of washing the dishes. I feel guilty that I don't sleep with my husband enough and when we do get down to business, I feel guilty that I'm not looking after Owen. I feel guilty when he spits-up (irrational, but true) and I feel guilty when I spend money on new clothes for him. I feel guilty that my body doesn't look the way it used to; I feel guilty that I indulge in cookies and ice cream when I should be eating grapes to shift these last few pounds. I feel guilty for disturbing him and taking him to all his medical appointments even though they're for his own benefit and I feel guilty if I cancel one because one of us simply isn't up to the challenge of fighting a medical institution that day. Most of all, I feel guilty that my body make Owen the way he is. I feel guilty that my egg gave him those crazy chromosomes and that my body pushed him out when he wasn't ready. I feel guilty that I couldn't breastfeed him and I feel guilty that I had to leave him at the hospital for so long. I feel guilty ALL THE TIME.
10. The last unexpected challenge I've found (although I'm sure I'll think of more before my next post) is how much love I have for this little boy. You may not see that as a challenge, but can you imaging having so much love in you that it breaks your heart? If we have one, how on earth will I find room to love another baby as much as Owen?
Tina.
Friday, September 25, 2009
A (hilarious) lesson learnt!
So, here's the lesson I have learnt this week: do NOT put your baby in nappies that are too small!
I, by nature, am a penny-pinching miser when it comes to everyday items so I can splurge on luxeries. Therefore I buy own-brand nappies (he's going to crap in them! I don't need fancy ones!), own brand wipes (unless I have a coupon - 'nuff said) and very basic, generic baby clothes. We have to spend more than enough on his feeding supplies as he's tube fed with specialist formula, so I figured saving a few dollars on the mundane stuff is okay.
For this reason, when Owen grew out of his own-brand size one nappies a few weeks ago, I decided that I wanted to use up all the size ones we had before moving on to the size twos. Thing is, we still had two whole bags of them and he doesn't need changing that often. Heck, compared to when he was a newborn and needed up to ten or twelve changes a day, six times seems positively lazy! So, I perserved and kept using the teeny tiny ones on my growing boy. This has now backfired in the most spectactular way ...
My husband and I were shopping in the local supermarket on Sunday and had Owen tucked into his car seat on the trolley. He started to fuss and squirm a little, so I picked him up and laid him in my arms, with one hand supporting his bottom. I was therefore able to feel when he filled his nappy and I turned to my husband and said, "I think I know why he was fussy." I then turned Owen upright against my shoulder and noticed, to my interest, that he had had a VERY loose poop and it had started to come out of the top of the nappy at the back. This amused me so I looked at his t-shirt and shorts. Both had a little bit of mess on them. I look up at my husband to tell him to pass me the diaper bag and he had a look on his face which I can only describe as abject horror."Look at your jeans," he says. I do, and I notice several large drips running down my leg. My eye passes down to my foot, where I see yet more poop on my sandal and toes. I start to laugh.
My husband is now almost green as he points, wordless, at the floor. I then start laughing even harder because not only has Owen managed to cover both himself and his mother, but there is a large, long trail of baby poop now running the length of aisle 14. We look at the car seat, which is clean, but the groceries underneath have not escaped. I'm now laughing so hard my knees start to buckle, but my husband then comes out with, "The yams! It's all over the yams!" He says this over and over again, but only has the strength of character to point and can't quite bring himself to touch anything.
I finally manage to tell him to pass me the diaper bag and prepare to take Owen off and change him, but before I go, Mike panics and grabs the wipes from me, saying he has to clean up the mess. I point out that I will also need the wipes to clean Owen, which doesn't seem to have occured to him.
Anyway, the outcome was that we did get both baby and supermarket clean again, but every time I think about what hapened I just crack up. There was an older man standing near us at the time who must have also been a father and he found the whole thing hysterical too.
And we still haven't eaten the yams.
Lesson learnt! DO NOT dress your baby in nappies that are too small.
Tina
I, by nature, am a penny-pinching miser when it comes to everyday items so I can splurge on luxeries. Therefore I buy own-brand nappies (he's going to crap in them! I don't need fancy ones!), own brand wipes (unless I have a coupon - 'nuff said) and very basic, generic baby clothes. We have to spend more than enough on his feeding supplies as he's tube fed with specialist formula, so I figured saving a few dollars on the mundane stuff is okay.
For this reason, when Owen grew out of his own-brand size one nappies a few weeks ago, I decided that I wanted to use up all the size ones we had before moving on to the size twos. Thing is, we still had two whole bags of them and he doesn't need changing that often. Heck, compared to when he was a newborn and needed up to ten or twelve changes a day, six times seems positively lazy! So, I perserved and kept using the teeny tiny ones on my growing boy. This has now backfired in the most spectactular way ...
My husband and I were shopping in the local supermarket on Sunday and had Owen tucked into his car seat on the trolley. He started to fuss and squirm a little, so I picked him up and laid him in my arms, with one hand supporting his bottom. I was therefore able to feel when he filled his nappy and I turned to my husband and said, "I think I know why he was fussy." I then turned Owen upright against my shoulder and noticed, to my interest, that he had had a VERY loose poop and it had started to come out of the top of the nappy at the back. This amused me so I looked at his t-shirt and shorts. Both had a little bit of mess on them. I look up at my husband to tell him to pass me the diaper bag and he had a look on his face which I can only describe as abject horror."Look at your jeans," he says. I do, and I notice several large drips running down my leg. My eye passes down to my foot, where I see yet more poop on my sandal and toes. I start to laugh.
My husband is now almost green as he points, wordless, at the floor. I then start laughing even harder because not only has Owen managed to cover both himself and his mother, but there is a large, long trail of baby poop now running the length of aisle 14. We look at the car seat, which is clean, but the groceries underneath have not escaped. I'm now laughing so hard my knees start to buckle, but my husband then comes out with, "The yams! It's all over the yams!" He says this over and over again, but only has the strength of character to point and can't quite bring himself to touch anything.
I finally manage to tell him to pass me the diaper bag and prepare to take Owen off and change him, but before I go, Mike panics and grabs the wipes from me, saying he has to clean up the mess. I point out that I will also need the wipes to clean Owen, which doesn't seem to have occured to him.
Anyway, the outcome was that we did get both baby and supermarket clean again, but every time I think about what hapened I just crack up. There was an older man standing near us at the time who must have also been a father and he found the whole thing hysterical too.
And we still haven't eaten the yams.
Lesson learnt! DO NOT dress your baby in nappies that are too small.
Tina
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