Ha! The last post I wrote on here was called My newly insane life, and how apt that turned out to be. My apologies for not having updated recently, but... well... it's been a bit insane.
When I last wrote, my son was still in the hospital, recieving IV fluids for dehydration and the stomach flu. It was a Thursday, if I recall correctly. Well, my own father flew in from the UK to spend time with us that Saturday, and it was the same day Little O was discharged. He came home to see his Grandad, and we were thrilled his doctor thought he was well enough to come home back on a regular feeding schedule. We were all looking forward to getting some sleep, some food, and spending time with my dad.
That night, Little O took a turn for the worse, and we ended up being rushed to CHOW on Sunday afternoon by ambulance so he could be re-admitted up there. It was scary to be told your child was in a worse state than ever, just 24 hours after being discharged. His stomach flu and dehydration had led to a critical inbalance of electrolytes, and everyone was very concerned. It wasn't until later that I finally had time to sit and think about everything, but it scares me now to consider the possibilities of what could have happened if we hadn't taken him in again. It's possible we could have lost him.
The doctors on-call up at CHOW told us they would not be releasing him until they were 100% sure he had fully recovered, which implied they felt the staff at All Saints hadn't done their jobs properly and had fixed the symptoms, not the cause. Little O had blood drawn every hour until he screamed because his veins were so bruised and sore, and his diapers were weighed constantly to see how much fluid he was putting out. The most frightening score I saw was his weight. Before he was ill, Little O had worked hard to get to 25lb; when he was admitted to All Saints, he had dropped to 22lb, and when they took an initial set of measurements at CHOW only a few days later, he was between 18 and 19lb. For a little boy like that, losing 6lb is a scary, scary amount. Most of it was fluid, which he put on again fairly quickly with the IV rehydration, but it's still a significant part of this whole ordeal.
When he started getting better properly, the doctors told me what they thought was going on. Initially they suspected C. Difficile, which Little O had a few months ago, and we all had to wear protective gowns, masks, and gloves when he touched him. (I didn't, because I'm his mother and I thought it was ridiculous to wear protection after changing dirty diapers for over a week with bare hands.) Then those tests came back negative after 48 hours, which meant they settled on a diagnosis of several components:
1. Borderline compromised immune system
2. Catches stomach flu, like anyone else
3. Body can't fight off the flu easily because of the compromised immune system
4. Parents continue to feed liquid nutrition and fluids as instructed by healthcare staff
5. Body tries to absorb fluids but is also fighting off flu still
6. Fluids cannot be absorbed, so get 'washed out' of gut
7. As fluids pass through, they also wash out all the 'good' bacteria and enzymes, which cannot get a good grip because they body is still fighting the flu
8. No enzymes or bactera = no absorbtion = dehydration
9. Dehydration makes the diarrhea worse
10. Diarrhea makes the dehydration worse, which makes the diarrhea worse, which makes the dehydration worse... etc...
So, once Little O was discharged from All Saints and came home on a normal feeding routine again, his body actually couldn't cope and the dehydration got worse. In order to break the cycle, all food and fluids had to be stopped, and Little O had to be maintained on IV fluids only. It worked after 72 hours and we managed to get his body to accept small amounts of Pedialyte and formula again by Wednesday afternoon. He was discharged late on Thursday, after being in the hospital for five days (eight, if you include All Saints). He now has a different feeding plan altogether, and different liquid nutrition. It seems to be working, although it's a shame the new formula is made by Nestle, because Nestle is evil. I'm choosing my battles though, and have accepted this minor inconvenience because it's literally keeping my son alive. Hopefully it's not forever and he can move onto something less annoying as he continues to recover.
So, I went back to work and things pottered along for a bit until Little O got his cast. Remember that? He's wearing a cast for 3-6 months to help improve his scoliosis, and then a brace for another 3-6 months to keep his spine in place as he grows. The cast is incredibly heavy, and bright green. It's also a bitch to keep clean, as it comes down very low on the back - almost to Little O's tailbone. Because Little O has very loose poops anyway (which are further exacerbated by an overgrowth of bacteria in the small intestine, for which he is now on Flagyl for), the diapers cannot contain everything they need to. We've had to actually change diaper brands from Target (cheap, and we've never had a problem with them) to Pampers (horrifically expensive) because they're smaller, lighter, and use a different system of keeping the contents of diapers in its place. It's all very disgusting and technical, and it's such a colossal pain in the neck to deal with. Changing diapers isn't particularly enjoyable at the best of times, but trying to change one that cannot be secured in the usual manner because there's a giant fucking plaster cast in the way just gets ridiculous. Thankfully most of Little O's blowouts happen in the middle of the day, so the daycare staff have to deal with it more than we do. Small mercies, right?
There's more to say but I'm all typed-out for now. I shall endevour to provide another update shortly on the highs and lows of being back at work while juggling more freelance projects than I've ever had at any one time, and sinking further back into a grey depressive state (mmm... meds...), but for now I shall leave it here. Little O is home, and healthy(-ish), and it's nearly Christmas. I am thankful.
Tina.
Showing posts with label Medical industry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Medical industry. Show all posts
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Friday, May 28, 2010
Bigger blog
Since Owen's birthday on May 17th, things have been a bit of a whirlwind. He has had a birthday party, some professional photos taken, surgery and a stay in hospital overnight, a change in formula, and a pretty nasty stomach bug.
It's a shame I'm not keen on sharing photos of my son on this annoymous blog, otherwise I'd load up some from his awesome birthday party. It was brilliant. Every child ought to have a first birthday just like it. Mike's family came out to visit for the occasion and I invited about twenty other friends and their small children too. We had a barbeque using our very American gas-powered outdoor grill, which fires up in about three minutes and cooks meat and veggies perfectly - as long as Mike is watching it. We also had a friend make some cheesecakes to use as birthday cakes. Owen can't manage completely solid food yet, so some creamy, delicious goodness seemed like a nice halfway point between proper sponge cake and liquid baby food. It meant we could stick a candle in it too, which for some reason was very important to me. Owen's guests were extremely generous with presents and he received some incredible clothes and toys. Every single thing was obviously thought-about too, because friends of mine know how much I can't stand gendered toys, and that Owen requires clothes that don't interfere with his tube feedings. He received very gender-neutral toys and clothes, and there was nothing I thought we'd have to put away for a bit until he's able to use it. I was also very pleased that people listened to my (polite) request that he be given toys to help his development. Not every toy aimed at one-year-olds is appropriate for my little boy, but there are items out there which will kick-start a new stage in his growth - such as an adorable walking device that babies can either sit on or push in front of them, that we have named Lionel the Lion. It roars. So does Owen.
On his actual birthday, which was a Monday, I took Little O to get some professional photos taken. Out here it is perfectly normal to get photos done ALL THE LIVE LONG DAY. I have friends who took professional shots every month for the first year of their son's life, and others who don't let a national holiday pass without marching in to a photo studio: Easter, Christmas, Valentine's Day; their daughter has a portrait for all of 'em. I, however, prefer to be a cheap-ass mother, and felt that some nice photographs to commemorate the first year in my son's extremely challenging life were more than appropriate. Owen had other plans, of course, and didn't smile for the camera for most of the session. Of the thirty-or-so shots the photographer took, only four or five were nice enough to use. I ordered some for home and family, but it's not something I plan on doing every year. But this year was special.
On the Wednesday of Birthday Week, Owen had surgery to repair his cleft palate and take off that fucking ugly ear tag he's had since he was born. He was a complete trooper during and after his operation, and my mouth fails me when I try to describe how brave and strong he is. His fourth operation in a year, and he's such a superstar. My heart just swells with pride at the strength of his character, and I tell him that every day. He has to wear these ridiculous arm restraints for two weeks so he doesn't suck on his fingers and pop open his stitches - yuk. It's incredibly hot over here at the moment (yesterday it was 82F/28C) and those restraints stink like a son of a bitch with Owen's sweat. Thankfully we have two pairs and I've been able to wash them, but they're still not nice for him to wear in the heat and I haven't been particularly diligent about him wearing them when he's fussy. At the moment he has a horrible stomach bug, and it seems cruel to deny him the comfort of sucking on his fingers or thumb when he's feeling crappy. I've been watching him to make sure he doesn't get too aggressive and potentially harm the surgical site, and so far, so good.
On Monday of this week I took him up to the GI clinic to see if we could change his formula. He's been on Neocate since he was born, which is a hypoallergenic, amino-acid based formula suitable for children who just won't tolerate anything else. After Owen passed his allergy study a couple of weeks ago, his doctors have been keen to move him on to something with higher calories and a cheaper price tag. So now he's on something called Pediasure, which is widely available and comes pre-mixed. Hallelujah! Unfortunately, the night we started weaning him on to it, he came down with a stomach bug and temperature, and hasn't been tolerating feeds of any large volumes at all. I'm just hoping it's the bug and not the formula.
I do feel guilty when Owen gets ill, because I take down the amount of food I give him. When he's ill he throws up more, regardless of whether the bug is respitory or gastrointestinal, so it seems cruel to push as much food as I can in to his stomach, only for him to bring it up violently and with great distress. So I tend to ignore our regular schedule (8am, 12pm, 5pm and overnight starting at 8.30pm) and allow him to sleep as much as he wants to. It does mean though that not only does he miss complete feeds, he doesn't even get a full feed when he does eat. It's that ever-present issue of trying to do what's best for him versus what keeps him happy: balancing his nutritional needs with his comfort. He's so unwell at the moment that he's waking up every ten minutes or so at night (don't even get me started on how exhausted I am after the last two nights), and throwing up his overnight feed, which means he's not getting that full amount either. I feel very guilty when he doesn't gain weight during an illness, but I try and remember that if he were a normal child, fed in a normal way, then he'd probably be refusing to eat anyway. This is a similar thing, I guess.
In a couple of weeks I take Owen in to discuss the results of an immunology study he had done. His doctor called me and requested I bring him in, which scares the bejesus outta me. Apparently some of his 'levels' came back too low, which is a strong indicator of an immune deficiency disorder. Those are pretty scary and something which I know next to nothing about. I just hope it's not so bad he eventually requires a bone marrow transplant, or infusions every month. The more stuff I can manage from home, the better.
Owen qualified for Medicaid! Hurrah! Too dull to explain here, but it means that a lot of our financial problems associated with his care will now be handled by the state of Wisconsin. This is fantastic news and I'm just waiting for him number to arrive in the post so I can call all his healthcare providers and tell them to stick their medical bills up their arse. I will relish every single call.
Tina.
It's a shame I'm not keen on sharing photos of my son on this annoymous blog, otherwise I'd load up some from his awesome birthday party. It was brilliant. Every child ought to have a first birthday just like it. Mike's family came out to visit for the occasion and I invited about twenty other friends and their small children too. We had a barbeque using our very American gas-powered outdoor grill, which fires up in about three minutes and cooks meat and veggies perfectly - as long as Mike is watching it. We also had a friend make some cheesecakes to use as birthday cakes. Owen can't manage completely solid food yet, so some creamy, delicious goodness seemed like a nice halfway point between proper sponge cake and liquid baby food. It meant we could stick a candle in it too, which for some reason was very important to me. Owen's guests were extremely generous with presents and he received some incredible clothes and toys. Every single thing was obviously thought-about too, because friends of mine know how much I can't stand gendered toys, and that Owen requires clothes that don't interfere with his tube feedings. He received very gender-neutral toys and clothes, and there was nothing I thought we'd have to put away for a bit until he's able to use it. I was also very pleased that people listened to my (polite) request that he be given toys to help his development. Not every toy aimed at one-year-olds is appropriate for my little boy, but there are items out there which will kick-start a new stage in his growth - such as an adorable walking device that babies can either sit on or push in front of them, that we have named Lionel the Lion. It roars. So does Owen.
On his actual birthday, which was a Monday, I took Little O to get some professional photos taken. Out here it is perfectly normal to get photos done ALL THE LIVE LONG DAY. I have friends who took professional shots every month for the first year of their son's life, and others who don't let a national holiday pass without marching in to a photo studio: Easter, Christmas, Valentine's Day; their daughter has a portrait for all of 'em. I, however, prefer to be a cheap-ass mother, and felt that some nice photographs to commemorate the first year in my son's extremely challenging life were more than appropriate. Owen had other plans, of course, and didn't smile for the camera for most of the session. Of the thirty-or-so shots the photographer took, only four or five were nice enough to use. I ordered some for home and family, but it's not something I plan on doing every year. But this year was special.
On the Wednesday of Birthday Week, Owen had surgery to repair his cleft palate and take off that fucking ugly ear tag he's had since he was born. He was a complete trooper during and after his operation, and my mouth fails me when I try to describe how brave and strong he is. His fourth operation in a year, and he's such a superstar. My heart just swells with pride at the strength of his character, and I tell him that every day. He has to wear these ridiculous arm restraints for two weeks so he doesn't suck on his fingers and pop open his stitches - yuk. It's incredibly hot over here at the moment (yesterday it was 82F/28C) and those restraints stink like a son of a bitch with Owen's sweat. Thankfully we have two pairs and I've been able to wash them, but they're still not nice for him to wear in the heat and I haven't been particularly diligent about him wearing them when he's fussy. At the moment he has a horrible stomach bug, and it seems cruel to deny him the comfort of sucking on his fingers or thumb when he's feeling crappy. I've been watching him to make sure he doesn't get too aggressive and potentially harm the surgical site, and so far, so good.
On Monday of this week I took him up to the GI clinic to see if we could change his formula. He's been on Neocate since he was born, which is a hypoallergenic, amino-acid based formula suitable for children who just won't tolerate anything else. After Owen passed his allergy study a couple of weeks ago, his doctors have been keen to move him on to something with higher calories and a cheaper price tag. So now he's on something called Pediasure, which is widely available and comes pre-mixed. Hallelujah! Unfortunately, the night we started weaning him on to it, he came down with a stomach bug and temperature, and hasn't been tolerating feeds of any large volumes at all. I'm just hoping it's the bug and not the formula.
I do feel guilty when Owen gets ill, because I take down the amount of food I give him. When he's ill he throws up more, regardless of whether the bug is respitory or gastrointestinal, so it seems cruel to push as much food as I can in to his stomach, only for him to bring it up violently and with great distress. So I tend to ignore our regular schedule (8am, 12pm, 5pm and overnight starting at 8.30pm) and allow him to sleep as much as he wants to. It does mean though that not only does he miss complete feeds, he doesn't even get a full feed when he does eat. It's that ever-present issue of trying to do what's best for him versus what keeps him happy: balancing his nutritional needs with his comfort. He's so unwell at the moment that he's waking up every ten minutes or so at night (don't even get me started on how exhausted I am after the last two nights), and throwing up his overnight feed, which means he's not getting that full amount either. I feel very guilty when he doesn't gain weight during an illness, but I try and remember that if he were a normal child, fed in a normal way, then he'd probably be refusing to eat anyway. This is a similar thing, I guess.
In a couple of weeks I take Owen in to discuss the results of an immunology study he had done. His doctor called me and requested I bring him in, which scares the bejesus outta me. Apparently some of his 'levels' came back too low, which is a strong indicator of an immune deficiency disorder. Those are pretty scary and something which I know next to nothing about. I just hope it's not so bad he eventually requires a bone marrow transplant, or infusions every month. The more stuff I can manage from home, the better.
Owen qualified for Medicaid! Hurrah! Too dull to explain here, but it means that a lot of our financial problems associated with his care will now be handled by the state of Wisconsin. This is fantastic news and I'm just waiting for him number to arrive in the post so I can call all his healthcare providers and tell them to stick their medical bills up their arse. I will relish every single call.
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, 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, April 24, 2009
A(nother) visit to the doctor.
I went for my thirty-two week check-up yesterday at the doctor's surgery. Since about a month ago I've been going every two weeks, and from thirty-six weeks I'll be going once a week instead. It's not a hardship now I've started working from home and most of the time I enjoy the visits. I like hearing my baby's little heartbeat and spending time in the waiting room in the company of other pregnant women. (We all check out each other's bumps to see how far along we are. It's competition time, ninja-style.)
Yesterday, however, I wasn't at all impressed with my visit. To start with, since we moved house my journey to the doctor's has been made considerably shorter, which I forgot about completely until I rolled up to the hospital almost an hour early. So I stayed in my car, rolled down the window and read The New Yorker for a bit, then waddled my huge stomach and backside up to the third floor about ten minutes before my appointment. I was then kept waiting for an astonishing FORTY minutes (unheard of in this insurance-driven country) because they've changed the layout a bit and were down to only two clinic rooms. Of course, it wasn't until I went back up to the counter and pouted with an English accent that things started moving, so naturally I was quite put out and needed to have a wee.
Ah, having a wee. Normally I'm quite skilled at this part, having peed into the little cup so many flipping times already. However, yesterday for the first time I realised that I am no longer able to SEE the cup underneath my big belly. In vain I tried scooting myself around on the toilet seat for a better angle, lifting my stomach to see if that would help and finally settled on the only option left to me: blind luck. I ended up weeing on my hand, the cup, the label on the cup and even on the seat (how the hell did it get there?!), but I'm a pro and didn't panic. I had already prepared my clean-up crew for this very event ahead of time and proceded to wipe everything down with what can only be described as one of those little handi-wipes you get from KFC when you order chicken.
Weeing test done? Check.
Blood pressure done? Check.
Listening to the baby's heartbeat? Check.
Doctor running late and nearly out the door...? Hang on a sec!
I'd been at the hospital since 3.10pm and only in to see the doctor for five measly minutes by 4.45pm, so I decided to milk my time with him for as much as possible. I decided to ask him what my options were for contraceptives after the baby is born, although I kinda wish I hadn't...
In his best high school sex-education teacher voice, my doctor lectured me on every single kind of contraceptive imaginable for the next ten minutes. He told me that abstinence was the only fool-proof method (in his words, "to my knowledge there's only been one failure, and that was 2,000 years ago."), explained the difference between progesterone-only hormones and combined hormones (progesterone and estrogen) and even told me the most cost-effective method (a ten-year IUD, provided you leave it in that long). Not once did he ask me whether I wanted any more children after this one and if so, when we planned on conceiving them. I felt like a careless teenager being given one of life's lessons too late.
It also bothered me that my options for contraception after the birth are so limited. My husband and I don't enjoy using condoms and are quite frankly NOT going to abstain from sex, so I wanted a hormonal method instead. Here's the lowdown: progesterone (p) only hormones are available as injections, implants, tablets and patches but they can mess up your periods, leading to heavier, irregular cycles and spotting or bleeding in between. Combined (c) hormones are available as pills, patches and IUDs, but while they give you shorter, lighter periods, they can also seriously limit the amount of breastmilk you produce, which is obviously less than ideal for nursing mothers. Both p- and c-pills leak hormones into breastmilk, which nursing babies then injest. It's not harmful to them, but I can't imagine it's beneficial either. Most new mothers therefore choose a p-only hormone and just put up with the crappy cycles and irregular bleeding, but I want more than that.
Why hasn't the medical industry come up with a better alternative yet? The c-pill has been around since the 1950s and yet we STILL can't offer women a third option? I want to breastfeed but I don't want to bleed. I also want to have sex on MY schedule, not on the whim of a pill that dictates if will be bleeding that night. Is that so hard to figure out? I also want to be able to pee into a little cup using a better method than blind luck. Why hasn't someone come up with a better option for this, too? Honestly, it's as though we're the last ones to take into consideration, even though pregnant women are clearly into sex and probably wee into cups more often than any other human beings in the space of nine months. Where is the medical industry now?
Failing us, that's where.
Tina
Yesterday, however, I wasn't at all impressed with my visit. To start with, since we moved house my journey to the doctor's has been made considerably shorter, which I forgot about completely until I rolled up to the hospital almost an hour early. So I stayed in my car, rolled down the window and read The New Yorker for a bit, then waddled my huge stomach and backside up to the third floor about ten minutes before my appointment. I was then kept waiting for an astonishing FORTY minutes (unheard of in this insurance-driven country) because they've changed the layout a bit and were down to only two clinic rooms. Of course, it wasn't until I went back up to the counter and pouted with an English accent that things started moving, so naturally I was quite put out and needed to have a wee.
Ah, having a wee. Normally I'm quite skilled at this part, having peed into the little cup so many flipping times already. However, yesterday for the first time I realised that I am no longer able to SEE the cup underneath my big belly. In vain I tried scooting myself around on the toilet seat for a better angle, lifting my stomach to see if that would help and finally settled on the only option left to me: blind luck. I ended up weeing on my hand, the cup, the label on the cup and even on the seat (how the hell did it get there?!), but I'm a pro and didn't panic. I had already prepared my clean-up crew for this very event ahead of time and proceded to wipe everything down with what can only be described as one of those little handi-wipes you get from KFC when you order chicken.
Weeing test done? Check.
Blood pressure done? Check.
Listening to the baby's heartbeat? Check.
Doctor running late and nearly out the door...? Hang on a sec!
I'd been at the hospital since 3.10pm and only in to see the doctor for five measly minutes by 4.45pm, so I decided to milk my time with him for as much as possible. I decided to ask him what my options were for contraceptives after the baby is born, although I kinda wish I hadn't...
In his best high school sex-education teacher voice, my doctor lectured me on every single kind of contraceptive imaginable for the next ten minutes. He told me that abstinence was the only fool-proof method (in his words, "to my knowledge there's only been one failure, and that was 2,000 years ago."), explained the difference between progesterone-only hormones and combined hormones (progesterone and estrogen) and even told me the most cost-effective method (a ten-year IUD, provided you leave it in that long). Not once did he ask me whether I wanted any more children after this one and if so, when we planned on conceiving them. I felt like a careless teenager being given one of life's lessons too late.
It also bothered me that my options for contraception after the birth are so limited. My husband and I don't enjoy using condoms and are quite frankly NOT going to abstain from sex, so I wanted a hormonal method instead. Here's the lowdown: progesterone (p) only hormones are available as injections, implants, tablets and patches but they can mess up your periods, leading to heavier, irregular cycles and spotting or bleeding in between. Combined (c) hormones are available as pills, patches and IUDs, but while they give you shorter, lighter periods, they can also seriously limit the amount of breastmilk you produce, which is obviously less than ideal for nursing mothers. Both p- and c-pills leak hormones into breastmilk, which nursing babies then injest. It's not harmful to them, but I can't imagine it's beneficial either. Most new mothers therefore choose a p-only hormone and just put up with the crappy cycles and irregular bleeding, but I want more than that.
Why hasn't the medical industry come up with a better alternative yet? The c-pill has been around since the 1950s and yet we STILL can't offer women a third option? I want to breastfeed but I don't want to bleed. I also want to have sex on MY schedule, not on the whim of a pill that dictates if will be bleeding that night. Is that so hard to figure out? I also want to be able to pee into a little cup using a better method than blind luck. Why hasn't someone come up with a better option for this, too? Honestly, it's as though we're the last ones to take into consideration, even though pregnant women are clearly into sex and probably wee into cups more often than any other human beings in the space of nine months. Where is the medical industry now?
Failing us, that's where.
Tina
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)