Okay... day two!
So, we left off with Little O being admitted to CHOW for dehydration following a Rotavirus diagnosis at a different hospital. Well, we finally got settled in our room at about 8pm, which is usually Little O's bedtime, but, as anyone who's ever been admitted to hospital knows, getting through the barrage of tests, questions, medical history and other assorted interruptions, means that it's another several hours before you're left in peace. Finally at around midnight we were left alone for a while, and I managed to get the pull-out couch set up so I could also sleep. However, during the night we were constantly being woken up by nurses and other medical professionals who needed more blood drawn, or vitals taken, or even just medical students 'taking a look' at 4am. It was absolutely absurd, and by 5am I'd given up and got up for the day. I'd had about three hours of sleep, and Little O had had about five.
Because he was so tired and ill, my son was also GRUMPY! I therefore made an executive decision to instruct all medical staff and other busy-bodies to leave us the hell alone after 12pm so we could both nap. Little O was getting sleepy around 12.30pm, but he was finding it hard to drop off and just wanted to roll around and tug on the number of tubes and devices attached to his body. At 1pm he finally succeeded in ripping off the splint that was keeping his arm straight so the IV would stay put, and before I could run over to his bed and stop him, he'd already begun playing with the IV itself. Convinced he'd done some more damage than I could see (with my medically-untrained eyes), I pushed the call button for the nurse and held Little O's hands still until we could fix the bandages, splint and IV. After about 20 mins a different nurse came in from our usual one, took a cursory look at the IV, and announced that she saw nothing wrong with it. I protested, and explained that Little O had definitely been playing with it, but she flushed it a few times and stuck to her guns. Then she wrapped the splint back on his arm so tightly I couldn't see any skin from armpit to fingertip.
Feeling unsure but relieved, I tried to get Little O to sleep again, but he started cycling through patterns of sleeping for about 15 mins, then waking up screaming and being restless. Then he'd tire himself out from screaming so hard he'd fall asleep, and 15 mins later the pattern would start all over again. I was really upset. I was so, so tired, and getting frustrated and worried. I called a nurse in (our usual one, this time) to look at him and she said she'd get a doctor, who never came. Then twice I called for a doctor myself, even going out into the hallway to physically bring one back with me. Doctors are not gods, and no matter how much respect I have for their knowledge, profession, or time, I felt as though I needed to start making a fuss so someone would help me with my son.
At about 2pm I called my husband away from his work and he arrived just after 3pm. The first thing he said when he entered the room was: "Little O is in pain". At around 4.30pm we managed to get some more doctors and med students in to take another look, and both my husband and I told them explicitly that we felt Little O's IV was bothering him, and that he was in pain. Finally one of them agreed to give him Tylenol (paracetamol) and a nurse was sent off to complete the order. At 5pm she came back in to administer the meds, and while she was in the room she checked his IV, for the first time since 1pm. Immediately she said, "This has to come out" and pulled off the gauze, tape and splint to reveal a very swollen little arm. She ripped out the IV and ran out of the room to get some help.
I approached the bed to see what the problem was, and to my horror Little O's arm was so swollen that he could not physically move his fingers. His arm was about three times the size it normally is, and he was SCREAMING in agony. His whole arm, from fingertip to shoulderblade, was absolutely massive. It looked like someone had inflated it with a bicycle pump. When the nurse had taken off the adhesive, the skin underneath had been stretched so thin that the tape had taken several layers off with it and left a gaping, weeping wound in the crook of his arm. There were also blisters and burns, and the whole thing was very painful to touch. The IV must have infiltrated about four hours prior, when he'd been playing with it, and the fluid meant to rehydrate him had instead been slowly pooling under the skin, swelling the arm and causing a lot of pain.
Well, I just lost it. I scooped Little O up and started sobbing and sobbing. I disconnected his feeding pump and took him over to the couch for cuddles and kisses, while both us got drenched in tears. My husband began the practical stuff, by getting us pillows and blankets, and applying the warm compresses the nurse had brought in to soothe the pain and start to relieve the swelling. I was able to calm down enough to tell my husband I wanted to take Little O home, because I felt he was being harmed more than healed under CHOW's care, and he immediately agreed with me. We told the nurse our intentions and she got a doctor in to try and talk us out of it. We didn't listen, and prepared to go home.
Before we left, Little O's regular GI doctor stopped by to see us, and recommended getting some stool samples to test on while we were heading home. As it was non-invasive (Little O kindly prepared a "sample" during the discussion), we said it was okay and then left at about 7.30pm.
More on the results of those tests tomorrow... But just one last thought for today: I called this post "Baby Steps" for a reason. One, because Little O is finally learning to walk, and two, because learning how to be an advocate for your child can take you to places you never thought you'd go. Having a nurse ignore your pleas for four hours, and for medical professionals to cause harm by thinking they know your child's patterns of behaviour better than you do, well, it really made me take a few baby steps in a new direction. I have been forced to face up to the fact that I may be seen (or unseen) to be invisible, and for my instincts to be ignored. This has never happened to me before, because most doctors my son sees defer to me on how to take care of him in the best way. However, I am certain, more than ever, that I am the best advocate for my son, and I am certain that I will not take no for an answer next time. I will do better and will be stronger, so that there is never, ever, a "next time" anyway.
Baby steps, baby steps.
Tina.
Showing posts with label Strength. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Strength. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Friday, August 27, 2010
I'm so tired I could...
thump.
That's the sound of my head hitting the pillow this afternoon for a well-deserved nap... or rather, it would have been if Little O hadn't been such a godawful ratbag and woken up time and time again to scream the house down or throw up.
I bloody hate Fridays. Traditionally Tuesdays were my least favourite day of the week because while you can get a good nights sleep over the weekend and charge your batteries for Monday, there's no such opportunity for Tuesdays. You've still got to get up and have a day of misery at work, but you're running on less sleep and more angst than the day before. It's traditionally been a bit shit.
But now Fridays are a bit shit. I'm just so tired and fed up with being forced to be stay-at-home-mom that I spend the whole day watching the clock and waiting for my husband to get home. I had to get my sorry arse out of bed early this morning to take Bob to the vet for some vaccinations, so I prayed Little O would do the decent thing and let me sleep as long as possible... no such luck. He woke up AS SOON as my husband left for work at 5.45am (a common theme, and I feel the two aren't entirely unrelated) and threw up, did a poo, then yelled at me to come and clean both messes up. And of course I couldn't get back to sleep after that, so I was all kinds of moody at the vet and have continued to simmer and seethe ever since.
Little O is just driving me mental. He's my favourite person in the whole wide world, which is why when he acts up I get a bit demented. I feel like he's deliberately pushing my buttons( which of course he isn't), and sometimes when he cries or coughs or poos and MAKES himself throw up it feels really personal. It feels as though I'm failing him somehow, and he knows it. We have a procedure next week to try Botox injections into Little O's stomach. And an endoscopy. And a contrast study. And anaesthesia. And all kinds of other bollocks that I'm too tired and miserable to discuss. I just want something to change. I want the doctor to point at a screen, go, "Oh look! That's the problem!", and fucking fix it. Little O and I have been dealing with this for 15 months now. It isn't fair. MAKE THIS REFLUX GO AWAY.
I was at the gym yesterday doing a Zumba class, and right slap bang in the middle of some kind of ridiculous twisty move, two things happened. One, I felt a rib go 'pop'; and two, it struck me how pointless everything else in my life is until this reflux gets sorted. Why the hell am I investing my time and energy into an extremely camp exercise class, when my child is at home throwing his guts up every two hours? My mother wants me to go and visit the UK in February with Little O. By myself. For 'a break', as she put it. Yeah, right. Because travelling for nine hours on a plane with a baby who won't stop throwing up will of course be 'a break'. That's it's very definition. Don't get me wrong: I don't mind going to the UK and taking a small child with me, but I don't want to do it alone. It took all the strength in both of us to keep calm and carry on when my husband and I flew over at Christmas, and it took even MORE strength in me to do the same in Seattle. It's just different when you're by yourself, and it's hugely different when you're dealing with a baby with special needs.
Still, Sunday beckons, and with it the enticing invitation to appear on BBC Radio. I'm naturally a night owl so I'm actually really, really looking forward to drinking loads of Diet Coke and staying awake until the wee small hours. And I'll have a fantastic, legitimate reason for poking my husband to get out of bed in the morning to deal with Little O's vomit/poo/screaming, because I'll have been working until 3am.
It's amazing that I consider that 'a break'.
Tina.
That's the sound of my head hitting the pillow this afternoon for a well-deserved nap... or rather, it would have been if Little O hadn't been such a godawful ratbag and woken up time and time again to scream the house down or throw up.
I bloody hate Fridays. Traditionally Tuesdays were my least favourite day of the week because while you can get a good nights sleep over the weekend and charge your batteries for Monday, there's no such opportunity for Tuesdays. You've still got to get up and have a day of misery at work, but you're running on less sleep and more angst than the day before. It's traditionally been a bit shit.
But now Fridays are a bit shit. I'm just so tired and fed up with being forced to be stay-at-home-mom that I spend the whole day watching the clock and waiting for my husband to get home. I had to get my sorry arse out of bed early this morning to take Bob to the vet for some vaccinations, so I prayed Little O would do the decent thing and let me sleep as long as possible... no such luck. He woke up AS SOON as my husband left for work at 5.45am (a common theme, and I feel the two aren't entirely unrelated) and threw up, did a poo, then yelled at me to come and clean both messes up. And of course I couldn't get back to sleep after that, so I was all kinds of moody at the vet and have continued to simmer and seethe ever since.
Little O is just driving me mental. He's my favourite person in the whole wide world, which is why when he acts up I get a bit demented. I feel like he's deliberately pushing my buttons( which of course he isn't), and sometimes when he cries or coughs or poos and MAKES himself throw up it feels really personal. It feels as though I'm failing him somehow, and he knows it. We have a procedure next week to try Botox injections into Little O's stomach. And an endoscopy. And a contrast study. And anaesthesia. And all kinds of other bollocks that I'm too tired and miserable to discuss. I just want something to change. I want the doctor to point at a screen, go, "Oh look! That's the problem!", and fucking fix it. Little O and I have been dealing with this for 15 months now. It isn't fair. MAKE THIS REFLUX GO AWAY.
I was at the gym yesterday doing a Zumba class, and right slap bang in the middle of some kind of ridiculous twisty move, two things happened. One, I felt a rib go 'pop'; and two, it struck me how pointless everything else in my life is until this reflux gets sorted. Why the hell am I investing my time and energy into an extremely camp exercise class, when my child is at home throwing his guts up every two hours? My mother wants me to go and visit the UK in February with Little O. By myself. For 'a break', as she put it. Yeah, right. Because travelling for nine hours on a plane with a baby who won't stop throwing up will of course be 'a break'. That's it's very definition. Don't get me wrong: I don't mind going to the UK and taking a small child with me, but I don't want to do it alone. It took all the strength in both of us to keep calm and carry on when my husband and I flew over at Christmas, and it took even MORE strength in me to do the same in Seattle. It's just different when you're by yourself, and it's hugely different when you're dealing with a baby with special needs.
Still, Sunday beckons, and with it the enticing invitation to appear on BBC Radio. I'm naturally a night owl so I'm actually really, really looking forward to drinking loads of Diet Coke and staying awake until the wee small hours. And I'll have a fantastic, legitimate reason for poking my husband to get out of bed in the morning to deal with Little O's vomit/poo/screaming, because I'll have been working until 3am.
It's amazing that I consider that 'a break'.
Tina.
Friday, February 19, 2010
The Winter Olympics
I have noticed something extraordinary about the Winter Olympics this year: I have changed my opinion dramatically about what events are worth watching. For instance, women's figure skating used to get me tuned in every time, but this year I've noticed the men's single figure skating is FAR more exciting than the women's. I think it's because the men are allowed to just go for it and let loose on the ice, whereas women are still supposed to be graceful and elegant, even while throwing themselves about in the most extraordinary positions. To be fair, the single women's competition hasn't aired yet, but looking at the women in the double's competition, it seems that they're just... well... duller.
I think this change in me has happened because when I was younger I always wanted to BE a figure skater (or a gymnast, or a dancer, or a paramedic, or a midwife, or a lorry driver, or a "stone lady"...), so I'd watch these tiny little skaters with the sure knowledge that I could also do what they were doing, if I only chose to do so. Now I'm older and the skaters are pretty much ALL younger than me (humph), I've noticed that the male competitors are able to perform much more advanced jumps and twists, which makes for more interesting viewing. I've gone from cringing at a man in spandex flaunting his wrists about and tilting his effect in a romantic fashion, to holding my breath when they attempt the ever-elusive Quad. It's extraordinary.
Also, speaking in more general terms, I think this Olympics has shown me some really, really exciting events I hadn't paid any attention to before. The fact I now live in the USA means that events have really become something, because there's usually a fair chance a medal is up for grabs. The team from Great Britain have barely been visible, although I will always cheer for them first. Also, the fact I live in the Midwest means that a lot of the US team's competitors are either local to this state or train nearby, which is rather exciting. For those reasons I've really taken to the short track speed skating (especially the relay... Oh. My. God.), the snowboard cross, the snowboard half-pipe and I'm sure some other events yet to be shown. There was a rather thrilling event the other day in the women's downhill skiing, because the competitors were flying down the mountain at such a rapid pace that there were wipe-outs and crashes galore. Fabulous!
Because I'm at home all day I've managed to watch nearly every minute of broad-casted Winter Olympics and I have to say, I don't think I've enjoyed one before quite so much.
Come on Great Britain! Win at least one medal... please...!
Tina.
I think this change in me has happened because when I was younger I always wanted to BE a figure skater (or a gymnast, or a dancer, or a paramedic, or a midwife, or a lorry driver, or a "stone lady"...), so I'd watch these tiny little skaters with the sure knowledge that I could also do what they were doing, if I only chose to do so. Now I'm older and the skaters are pretty much ALL younger than me (humph), I've noticed that the male competitors are able to perform much more advanced jumps and twists, which makes for more interesting viewing. I've gone from cringing at a man in spandex flaunting his wrists about and tilting his effect in a romantic fashion, to holding my breath when they attempt the ever-elusive Quad. It's extraordinary.
Also, speaking in more general terms, I think this Olympics has shown me some really, really exciting events I hadn't paid any attention to before. The fact I now live in the USA means that events have really become something, because there's usually a fair chance a medal is up for grabs. The team from Great Britain have barely been visible, although I will always cheer for them first. Also, the fact I live in the Midwest means that a lot of the US team's competitors are either local to this state or train nearby, which is rather exciting. For those reasons I've really taken to the short track speed skating (especially the relay... Oh. My. God.), the snowboard cross, the snowboard half-pipe and I'm sure some other events yet to be shown. There was a rather thrilling event the other day in the women's downhill skiing, because the competitors were flying down the mountain at such a rapid pace that there were wipe-outs and crashes galore. Fabulous!
Because I'm at home all day I've managed to watch nearly every minute of broad-casted Winter Olympics and I have to say, I don't think I've enjoyed one before quite so much.
Come on Great Britain! Win at least one medal... please...!
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
Monday, November 16, 2009
God in my life
I've been thinking really hard about my spiritual leanings recently, what with Owen's baptism next week and his blessing at Stan's Christening in January. I haven't reached any conclusions yet, but I will say that my feelings towards God change on an hourly basis at the moment.
When Owen is clearly in pain and screaming so hard he makes me cry too, I shout at God. I ask Him why he's chosen MY family to go through this; why Owen, why me? It breaks my heart every single day to see my child live in such discomfort and to realise that he has known nothing else his entire, short, sweet life. Why would God put such an awful disease on the planet, and why would He decide that Owen is one of the ones who should suffer? I have taken to venting my frustrations out on Him because I find it a lot easier and safer than talking to Mike or anyone else. After all, God doesn't really answer me back, and I know He'll forgive me if I say something I shouldn't.
But it's so hard to understand it sometimes. It's just so damn hard to watch my little boy suffer so much and to not be able to control it. I find myself looking at the children of friends and longing for their lives instead of our own. That isn't right. How can it be right to covert their lives; their children? And it isn't even as though I want THEIR child - I just want MY child to have THEIR child's easy life. I find it very, very hard to listen to people when they say, "Well yes, Little Susie spat up too", or, "Little Jimmy did XYZ today!" So bleedin' what?! My child is delayed developmentally because he has GERD and there's not a lick of a thing I can do about it.
Those jealous feelings lead me to believe that perhaps God isn't in control of my situation. Perhaps He skipped this house. Perhaps He meant to fix Owen's health issues but He got caught up in Darfur or Iraq, helping those mothers with their frail little ones instead. I couldn't blame Him - they probably need Him more.
Which leads me to my other feelings about God.
I heard a lovely phrase the other day: "Special babies are given to special mothers". I don't know whether this is true, but it's certainly nice to think it is. Perhaps God does have a hand here. Perhaps Owen was given to me because I am the one Mama in the whole wide world who is suited to exactly meet each and every one of his needs. Maybe God thought that Owen is a strong enough baby to live like this and we are a strong enough family to cope with watching him struggle. Maybe these problems had to be given to somebody and it was just a matter of choosing the strongest recipients.
I don't know. In times of despair, I find all that very hard to believe.
Tina.
When Owen is clearly in pain and screaming so hard he makes me cry too, I shout at God. I ask Him why he's chosen MY family to go through this; why Owen, why me? It breaks my heart every single day to see my child live in such discomfort and to realise that he has known nothing else his entire, short, sweet life. Why would God put such an awful disease on the planet, and why would He decide that Owen is one of the ones who should suffer? I have taken to venting my frustrations out on Him because I find it a lot easier and safer than talking to Mike or anyone else. After all, God doesn't really answer me back, and I know He'll forgive me if I say something I shouldn't.
But it's so hard to understand it sometimes. It's just so damn hard to watch my little boy suffer so much and to not be able to control it. I find myself looking at the children of friends and longing for their lives instead of our own. That isn't right. How can it be right to covert their lives; their children? And it isn't even as though I want THEIR child - I just want MY child to have THEIR child's easy life. I find it very, very hard to listen to people when they say, "Well yes, Little Susie spat up too", or, "Little Jimmy did XYZ today!" So bleedin' what?! My child is delayed developmentally because he has GERD and there's not a lick of a thing I can do about it.
Those jealous feelings lead me to believe that perhaps God isn't in control of my situation. Perhaps He skipped this house. Perhaps He meant to fix Owen's health issues but He got caught up in Darfur or Iraq, helping those mothers with their frail little ones instead. I couldn't blame Him - they probably need Him more.
Which leads me to my other feelings about God.
I heard a lovely phrase the other day: "Special babies are given to special mothers". I don't know whether this is true, but it's certainly nice to think it is. Perhaps God does have a hand here. Perhaps Owen was given to me because I am the one Mama in the whole wide world who is suited to exactly meet each and every one of his needs. Maybe God thought that Owen is a strong enough baby to live like this and we are a strong enough family to cope with watching him struggle. Maybe these problems had to be given to somebody and it was just a matter of choosing the strongest recipients.
I don't know. In times of despair, I find all that very hard to believe.
Tina.
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