A “Brady” stands for Bradycardia which means a dangerously slow heart rate…
That basically means that the lungs have already told the heart that they have “packed up their bags and left, so the heart might as well do the same”.
Unfortunately preemie parents usually get familiar with the terms “apnea” (which is often the precursor to a Brady) where the baby stops breathing. A “Brady”; is worse because the infant doesn’t only stop breathing but their heart rate slows down because of low blood oxygen levels which is called desaturation or “Desat” and all these terms are both terribly frightening and life threatening.
Apnea, the precursor to a Brady is always scary however, because if your baby has an “apnea attack” or “spell” it means he/she DOES stop breathing…but usually they will start again on their own within seconds and no intervention is needed.
“Apnea of prematurity” goes away the older the preemie gets or the closer they are to their due date (around 44 weeks it often goes away completely).
Apnea is causes by the newborn’s immature nervous and muscular systems and the more mature those system gets, the better the infants get at breathing on their own.
The percentage of preemies with apnea goes down after 34 weeks of gestation and dramatically the closer the preemie is to full term 38-40 weeks gestation.
When apnea do occur the brain fails to tell the lungs to breathe and since the lungs check out, the heart thinks it is next in line. Usually older preemies do not go into this Desat mode often since the systems in their bodies are more developed.
Therefore depending on the infant’s gestational age, issues and overall health, these terms can be more or less dangerous but the fear that grabs ahold of you when you are told your baby has stopped breathing and their blood oxygen level is so low their heart is literally starting to give up is indescribable and beyond terrifying…
Those beeping machines are every preemie parent’s worst nightmare, especially when the nurses react, then you know it’s really bad.
Intervention by a medical professional is never a good sign in the NICU.
“Didn’t you see her turning blue” Kate the nurse exclaims!
Her breathing is back to normal- and so is the baby’s; thank you God! “
“No” I think in my head and feel like a terrible mother yet again, I really didn’t see her turning any shade of blue.
My mom admits it out loud “I don’t think we saw that, what is it that we are looking for, and can you please explain what happened?”
Kate explains about the machines and the blue and the yellow lines, the heart rate and the oxygen levels on the monitor, going below 80 is bad but usually when the alarm beeps nobody gets overly concerned because the baby’s body will quickly correct what is wrong on their own, especially the babies “out on the floor” (in open beds).
My baby girl’s body did not correct her breathing, her blood oxygen levels were dangerously low and her heart rate dropped too low, needing manual intervention…
The Brady is one of the worst things that can happen “and this earns her an extra five days in the NICU” Kate tells us. I am too emotionally stressed and exhausted to try to feed her, the whole time I’m holding her, I’m starring at the monitors waiting for something bad to happen again…
I give Kate what I have pumped and as she is heating it up she chatters happily, seeming so relaxed that I must say a little rubs off on me, by the time the bottles are ready, I am too – but not for any fancy feeding tubes or wires leading to my boobs, just for the bottle.
Princess is doing so well and my mom and I start talking about other things instead of highlighting my daughter’s near death experience, agreeing though that nurse Kate is pretty awesome.
My mom always makes me feel better and before the nurse wants the baby back, swaddled and sleeping, we have time for some pictures and even share laughs about my huge swollen feet and smiles over how tiny baby M really is and how she looks really big in the pictures.
My mom is happy that she gets to hold her first granddaughter and we are both so extremely relieved that she seems fine again.
Once back in my room I get to kiss my big baby and gets sad again when my family leaves, but quickly get some perspective when hearing my night nurse’s story, wow… and I thought my husband can be insensitive and unemotional at times…
The ER doc (extremely good looking btw- which is just my luck and just soo typical) checked me after the standard two hour wait (where [naturally] a gun shot victims and a heart attack went ahead of me…) and the paperwork and vital checks.
To be laying on your stomach with your butt in the air (propped up by pillows I might add) on a narrow bed in a crowded ER with only flimsy drapes between you and the next person is not exactly my (or I do believe anybody’s) idea of fun!
Baby boy was getting antsy and hungry in the stroller and all I wanted to do was scoop up his tiny one month old body (still only weighing like the average newborn) take him home, snuggle and feed him all night and forget about this nightmare.
Unfortunately with this level of pain, it was impossible to forget and no matter how embarrassed and uncomfortable I was I was willing to do anything for the pain to go away (or at least lessen).
It was pretty clear from the start that this doctor’s specialty was NOT obstetrics or gynecological- he clearly stated that I needed surgery but to go through my own perinatal specialist, who would probably refer me to a perineum surgeon-
even if he took one look at the baby and then at me exclaiming “birth injury”!
The best he could do was stitch me up but he warned me that stitches would only be a quick fix, a “band aid” and temporary solution for the “outer layer” since these tears were too deep and would most likely require surgery in the end (just great…)
He still let me suffer through a CT scan (just to be sure there wasn’t any internal bleeding, cysts, masses or polyps etc.) while the nurses fought over holding my cute infant son!
I left the ER after several hours actually probably feeling in more pain (if that is even possible) than when I came…
No wound care or “sitz baths” would do make me feel better either…
My months long journey of pain (while taking care of 4 kids, six and under) had only just started…
Right after our successful “sip n see” parties (on trend with the idea being “sipping champagne and seeing the new baby~ perhaps the other way around for me) and after a successful 1 month doc appointment where the baby only weighs a little over 7lbs (a pretty common birth weight but what can I say my babies come early and petite!! 7lbs was the goal for 2 weeks but at least the Peds isn’t worried and only tells me to “keep doing what I’m doing”) something happens…
The baby is fine but all of a sudden, his mama is anything but…
It all happens so fast I sit down (think low squat) and I can literally feel myself tear…
The pain is hell on earth and the blood is trickling down my legs.
I actually have no idea what is happening only that I’m in acute pain and that this is potentially very, very serious…
Thank God my mom is here so I can discuss this with her but even if she suggest going to the ER right away (wise woman), I put on a ginormous pad (hello diaper) and huge comfy (pregnancy) pants and take my two older kids to school.
I almost have to stand when I’m driving (which is next to impossible of course) even if we put one of those after delivery rings (“donut pillow things) down on my seat-obviously understanding that this is some sort of birth injury but not understanding why it’s happening NOW?? Four weeks AFTER delivery…
The pain is excruciating…
I call my OB office and ask to speak with a nurse as soon as my kiddos are safely in their classroom, she (almost) screams “ER now” as soon as I explain the feeling and location of the tear…
I rush home (as fast as I can without you know being able to sit) and as the pain increases so does my worry…
I take my tiny 4-week old son from my mom (since he is nursing so often, and since I don’t know how long I will be gone, I’ll have to bring him to the hospital) who now has to stay home with my 22 month old as I quickly explain that the nurse agrees with her!
The blood is still slowly leaking out and there seems to be some yellow stuff as well-it’s confusing since I’m still bleeding a lot from after birth as well.
How do you tell the difference and where is it coming from? Major TMIs here, excuse me people!
Maybe I’ll just admit this; since I need to know how it looks and more exactly where I’m “hurt” before I need to explain it to the ER nurses/doctors- I need to see it…
It is a very difficult (and painful) task but…
Yup it’s torn…
Raggedy edges and ALL the way back…
My newborn daughter’s heart has stopped beating in front of our very eyes.
I take in the scene of the distraught nurse, the red flashing of the monitor and the alarm beeping, the tiny oxygen mask at the ready…without really taking it in at all.
My mom and I being positive, in high spirits, relieved that I am feeling better, hopeful and happy to be seeing the baby, are now suddenly in utter shock, “but she was doing so well”.
Before we can really take in or completely understand what is happening, it is over.
I think that maybe I have misunderstood what is happening, looking at my mom who seems equally confused.
Did that really just happen?
Did my little precious baby girl just stop breathing?
Was it another apnea attack? And why did this one seem so much more serious?
Why were all the lights blinking and alarms blaring?
Kate, the nurse actually looked scared when we walked in, while before she has seemed “close to oblivious” and always reacted down to earth and matter of fact.
Now the look of relief on her face is apparent, she even broke out a sweat while handling the baby and her obvious fear makes it all real…too real…
Wiping at her forehead she quickly rearranges her facial expressions into the stoic, efficient and knowledgeable professional she is and I think maybe I was imagining the fear in her eyes?
She had the situation under control right?
My baby was never in any REAL danger. They are so good here they can handle and predict almost anything, and my daughter was doing so well, she made it to 34 weeks, she was big for her gestational age, bigger than they thought.
Other than the breathing and the jaundice, eating issues and body temperature regulation difficulties she was fine.
Everyone was amazed at how fine she was. The NICU team rushing her there after delivery called her a miracle and even told my husband that her NICU stay would be short and marveled over how good she looked.
Besides; they moved her to a new, open bed, which is a great sign and her nurse also oversees two other little ones and not just her, meaning she is doing so much better.
Also think about all the other tiny babies in here, born terrifyingly early…scary things do happen to them where the nurses have reasons to get worked up, but my baby…
What exactly happened to her and why? I thought I was safe… we were safe, everybody taking the easy going approach, “she is big and doing so well”.
Even though it is in my nature to worry (driving myself and everyone around me crazy) I thought that I could finally ease up a little bit, feel blessed and relieved that my girl was doing so great!
Yes she is premature, yes she is tiny, yes she is in the NICU and not home with us and yes she lost weight and is now just over 4lbs and she has some issues and has overcome obstacles on the way…
The situation is frightening and far from ideal and nothing that I could ever have imagined but I was starting to look forward…
Kate bundles up the baby (swaddling her like only nurses can), puts her newborn hat on (you know the one, pink and blue) and puts her back in her clear crib on wheels…bed number 13.
That must be a very good sign right?
Maybe what we thought happened didn’t really…I don’t even know what I thought, I barely had time to react. From the easy interaction between my mom and I, to “what am I walking in to?” This is all so new to me and maybe it sounds weird but this baby is also so new to me, all these feelings and emotions, all this weirdness about her staying in the hospital, not being able to go home…come home with me, her mother…her family.
Me being sick, the bed rest, the hospital stay, I’m wondering when it all will catch up with me…
I look at my mom again, a little nervous smile. We are all good here, right!? Mom and I stand side by side, arms dangling, looking at the nurse, not sure what to do or say, questions piling up inside.
Finally Kate looks at us, her normal cool, collected self, “that my friends” she says “was a Brady”
It’s been over a year since I brought my last baby home but it’s so much left untold…
Coming home with baby number four and finally introducing him to his sibling tribe feels wonderful!
My number three is confused and upset that he is no longer the baby and we try to reinforce the importance, honor and joy of the “big brother” title.
He still cries and snuggles up to mama once I sit down on the living room sofa (oh how I missed thee) to show off their baby brother.
I know that I’m in for an intense “newborn period” and that I still have three other little kids to take care of and care for. 4 six and under…here we go!
But going from three to four is strangely smooth and while I won’t call it “bliss”- mostly due to all the usual suspects; the new mom (and baby) breastfeeding struggles, latching troubles, sore, raw nipples, leaky, engorged boobs and the utter fear of clogged milk ducts (or worse; gasp!; mastitis), tugging stitches, buckets of blood and you know the complete lack of sleep (might be the worst one in my book), we were doing just fine!! (Might also have something to do with my super awesome mom who yet again flew over the sea to be with me (us)!
The oldest brother is growing up and is proving to be (at least somewhat) helpful and the sister is completely in love with her newest baby brother (probably not remembering much from when her other baby brother was born) forgiving me (almost) for not bringing her a baby sister! My third little one is jealous and a little sad-regressing a bit over the weeks to come (crawling, drinking milk from bottles, wanting to be held and even nurse again!) but at yet not 2 years old, he is mostly adorable and easy to please with a cuddle and smooch (this is about to change big time but for now we are managing!)
Mom and I marvel how less stressed we are about the baby being so tiny and not gaining enough weight in the first two weeks (do not misunderstand me now, we do worry a bit but there is no panic). I am actually pretty confident in my own (as well as baby’s) ability to get the hang of breastfeeding and surviving on breastmilk alone, despite the doctor’s recommendations of adding formula.
My mom helps with literally everything else, allowing my husband to work, so I can concentrate on fattening my littlest cutie up.
It IS frustrating in the beginning, lots of tears from us both (baby and I- none from my mom) but we power through.
My mom cooks for my entire family while I sit on the couch coaching baby boy to eat, eat, eat- praying that he gets enough. Then mom takes the baby while we all eat (she is so marvelous)!
My husband takes the older two to brush teeth, go potty and read before bed, while mom takes the baby back after she finishes her own dinner and I put my big baby boy to bed. This routine really works, but makes me worried about my mom leaving in a few weeks.
Before mom leaves however we have to plan two different “sip n sees”, one for friends and one for family, and we all look forward to dressing up, decorating and showing off our newest family member!
While the parties go off without a hitch, what happens next is quite horrific…
The nurses who take care of my baby girl are apparently mad that she no longer has any milk left so they can’t feed her.
I quickly explain that the doctors told me that I can’t use any of my milk because the antibiotics they are giving me are too strong. One of the older nurses mutters something about “this mama obviously not knowing how important mother’s milk is to her baby” and I get sad (especially being extra sensitive right now) because I do know how important it is for my baby and I try really, really hard to even “produce” any.
As I tear up, another one of the younger nurses turns her back to me whispering loudly (if that makes sense; a “theatre whisper” in Swedish) that it is not like ‘’a lot of the medicine will come in the milk anyways and since the baby really needs the milk I would definitely give it to her ”.
I wish I could speak up and stand up for myself here but my timid side takes over and my mouth goes dry and my heart starts beating faster, I try to clear my throat to explain to these judgmental nurses that I really didn’t know and that the doctors did tell me to throw out my milk, when my favorite nurse Kate swoops in yet again and I don’t have to.
My savior from last night is saying how she can’t believe I’m standing up on my own two feet and that I’m here after seeing me in the state I was in the last time she saw me. She proceeds by telling the other nurses how extremely sick I was and how I’m such a trooper. I look at her hoping that she sees the gratefulness in my eyes- for everything. Then she tells the other two nurses that it is sometimes tricky with medicines; some antibiotics ARE too strong for the babies, even the little amount that actually comes in the milk (now this lady is incredible). Before the stunned nurses (actually giving me apologetic glances now) have a chance to respond, Kate announces that she will go get doctor W (the NICU baby doc) to ask her about the specific medication I am on, and she leaves with a wink to me.
The older nurse busies herself with getting the comfy rocking chair (highly sought after here in the NICU) and some pillows so that I can sit down and hold my baby, while the younger one now mumbles something about “skin to skin also being very important” before she hurries off.
Kate comes back happily sharing that I can stop pumping and dumping (what a waste) and start pumping in order to get baby some milk. She says that Dr. W is outraged that the doctors told me to throw my precious milk out but that it definitely isn’t my fault and she continues to explain that even if my antibiotic is probably the strongest one out there, it is also one they give to premature babies to help them fight off especially bad infections.
All I want to do is to go back up to my room (my new WIC room that is at the Women’s Intensive Care unit) and pump, pump, pump, getting as much milk as possible proving to everyone (childish I know, this is for my baby after all) that I CAN do it and that I DO have my daughter’s best interest, and only her best interest at heart.
But first some much needed snuggle time with my tiny cutie!
My mother comes by in the afternoon with my husband and son in tow. My little boy is satisfied settling in on my bed with SpongeBob and snacks from the vending machine (what? it’s not like we let him eat that crap all the time), knowing how to work the large off-white remote by now (please buddy, not the call button), the nurses swooning over him, the beautiful blonde little “girl” visiting her mommy, while my mom and I head down to the NICU.
We make it as far as the elevator before my husband calls telling me that our son is already “over it” running amok in the sterile room with all the hospital equipment; so not ideal.
My mom advices me to let daddy take care of this one, he could use the training and experience, she is excited to see the baby and to spend some time with both of us making sure we are okay!
As I bite my tongue, I agree with her but can’t help offering my husband some suggestions on what to do with our wild one, like take a walk or come up with a distracting game. I remind him not to let him touch anything in the room or pull the emergency rope in the bathroom (yep, he got very close… twice before).
I can’t help by worry a little but know I have to focus on my other baby and all this worry is exhausting, besides my husband has had a lot of practice lately with me being gone so long (even with all my mom’s help) so he should be able to figure this one out.
Before we are even at the hand-washing station, he texts me a reassuring message that the nurses are entertaining our little troublemaker and giving him cookies (telling him what a good girl he is; which I’m sure is quite confusing since we had the whole “boy or girl speech” not long ago)…
As soon as we are done washing up, and we turn the corner to bed number 13, the normally super calm, cool and collected nurse Kate is frantically patting my baby’s back, shouting for her to start breathing…
My doctor starts by what sounds like a defensive speech… and who is she defending? Her colleague, Dr. Jenny…for what you ask? It sounds like she is “apologizing” (more like making excuses) for Dr. Jenny leaving placenta inside me.
Now wait just a dang minute…I thought I had a uterus infection (what they call an emdomitri something and sounds just like some other diagnosis but isn’t…confused? So am I).
I just want to stop her, tell her what the team of doctors just told me, but on the other hand, I really want to hear her out. What does this mean exactly? Was there placenta left in me or not? Or do I have some small pieces of placenta stuck in my uterus AND an infection, or an infection because of the placenta? Lots of circular thoughts going on here, not really arriving anywhere and I don’t want to ask her for clarification simply because I want to hear her explanation about what went wrong.
I have a right to know why I’m so sick- at least I thought that was every patient’s right before I started this journey.
My doctor tells me that since my placenta completely ruptured it was really hard for the doctor delivering it (yes it’s called “delivering the placenta” just like “delivering the baby”, just a lot more gross) to clean out all the pieces. She worked on it for a long time (yes, she did, I was there…remember?) and really thought she had gotten it all out.
Now, it is important to realize that I don’t blame Dr. Jenny, not really, she was the one breaking the rest of my water after all, and it really did seem like she was working hard there, after our baby was delivered. What with the meconium (poopy water), the umbilical cord falling apart, the baby being rushed to the NICU and the gals (waiting for some core blood as part of the welcoming committee in between my legs…the more the merrier…no, really) getting really disappointed about (yes you remember) the ruptured placenta; which they were to their defense going to use for life saving purposes (I was disappointed too, it would have been rather nice and poetic if my baby and I could have saved someone else after everything we had been through).
Anyways, my doc seems pretty convinced that she is defending her colleague for the right thing here; saying that it is extremely difficult to know if they get all the smaller pieces out (well, I guess I should be grateful that they got the rags out that they used to soak up the blood- I did see/hear them count those…no I’m not bitter, again, just confused).
I am brought back to reality by the doctor’s laugh (reliving the delivery is still too fresh in my mind not to physically hurt even though I’m more than thankful for the blessing and miracle that is my tiny baby girl) saying that we should be relieved no bigger pieces were left and that because of that “we” avoided surgery.
I agree even if I can’t laugh with her. She brings up the fact that she did worry about the fever I had the night before being released and my way too tender tummy (instead of the fact that despite being my main doctor she could not find the rest of my bag of water hence letting me labor for over 30 hours-32 plus-probably about 29 hours more than I had to). Her voice is still comforting somehow however and when I ask her if this is the diagnosis (despite the team having brought me a different one mere seconds ago- wow they change their minds quite quickly here) she tells me that it is; leftover scraps and tiny pieces of placenta (nice sounding, I know…I should have capsuled that to go instead…).
I thank her and hang up. After another tuna sandwich (hey, when I find something I like, I tend to stick to it) and some more bad TV (“The Little Couple”, strangely relatable) and some more pumping, I talk to my mom who seems to think that Endometritis (was that my diagnosis or the other one with the similar name…?) and left over placenta (no doggie bag please…sorry, couldn’t help myself) are simply the same thing.
While I mull that over, the NICU calls to tell me that my baby needs me (oh, that is touching a mama nerve for sure). I press the call button for a nurse and this time they are not refusing me to go down to see my baby.
Once I’m back in the NICU (having major shaking flash backs) the nurses by my baby’s station (lucky number 13) seem angry…
When my son comes with my husband with yet another bag of a change of clothes, toothbrush, hairbrush and my laptop (have to be able to write!) it feels like déjà vu again. All the nurses admire my adorable “daughter” (I know his hair has gotten long but come on…) and tell me “she is so cute” to my husband’s endless frustration “he is ALL boy!” before they take my mom with them and leave me in the empty, lonely room. I almost want the nurses to stay with me and bother me all through the night (like they did my first nights on bed rest) and I can’t help starting a pity party of one, as a loud sob escaping my mouth.
The nurses “only” check on me every four hours to take my vitals, check my temp (which luckily is finally going down) and to switch out the IV fluids (still no food) and the antibiotics on steroids! I still feel sick however and no matter how hard I try and how much I need it, I’m still unable to really sleep.
The only good news is that nobody is talking large placenta pieces or surgery.
Still no answer as to why I’m even here however. I post on social media that I am back in the hospital again and get some nice supportive comments which do cheer me up a bit.
I call the NICU in the early morning, hoping that my baby at least had a good night. She did and I’m so excited to see her, but the main nurse tells me to wait a few hours until the fever is completely gone and I’m completely stabilized. They give me a pump so I can pump right away but what is the point since I won’t be feeding my little baby those drops of valuable milk anyways?
Yes, yes, I know, we don’t want my boobs to get engorged (what a weird word…) or for me to get another infection (wouldn’t that just be great) or any clogged milk ducts. I don’t think they have the ability to get too filled with milk now, what I’m pumping is still next to nothing and I feel defeated somehow in this hospital bed, yet again.
I’m back at the hospital having just celebrated leaving and I feel like a failure who can’t even do pregnancy and childbirth right, I mean come on already, what is going on here?
I try to cheer up while ordering another tuna sandwich (getting used to these by now!) and watching “The housewives” of somewhere (hey, don’t judge…) while I’m pumping. I’m trying to not be disappointed in my body by focusing on the wonderful blessing of child birth, and yes, we do have our miracle baby alive and beautiful and she will get healthy a strong with time. I’m thinking positive thoughts as I marvel over the milk squirting out of my boobs, nourishment for my baby (too bad I have to throw this batch of milk out) into the clear measuring bottles by the help of a machine sucking hard enough to make it flow. My hands are free to eat and handle the TV remote (which also includes the call button, window drapes, lights and bed adjuster) thanks to this marvelous invention, “the hands free pumping bra” (all pumping mother’s should seriously stop reading and pick one up right now #freeadvertising) that I by luck had time to snatch up at babies r us before going to the hospital and getting sick. What an amazing mix of what the female body can do naturally and modern technology (I bet the women of yesteryears would be jealous if they could see me now).
A team of doctors come by, enjoying the pumping, housewives, half a tuna sandwich and me trying to juggle shutting it all off and putting it all away in a hurry at the same time (let’s just say any wardrobe malfunction probably seem bleak in comparison) AND they also get a view of some hospital rooftops (drapes), strong lights (overhead), get to hear some loud music (wrong channel…radio?), witness some clear nipple shields flying and I’m pretty sure the toilet is flushing (not really). After a pregnant pause (ha, that was on purpose) one of the confused doctors starts taking about not finding any placenta in my uterus after all (I’m pretty sure the young doctor next to him is blushing… I hope for his sake he hasn’t only studied but actually seen the female anatomy before…).
As I’m trying to cover up with my sheet and turn off the frantic suction noises of the pump another doctor continues to tell me that my diagnoses is probably a uterus infection (probably?) and that they will have to wait for more test results to confirm anything.
As soon as they leave, this is when my doctor calls…
My insides are screaming “no no no”, my whole body stiffens up and shudders in a physical anticipatory pain response.
I take one look at my mom and I know that I need to do this, I just really, really don’t want to. The ultrasound tech girl explains that this procedure will allow her to take a better look at my insides in order to not miss anything and to be able to send the doctor a better image, a clearer picture of my grainy black and white insides I guess.
I ask if I really have to but already know that it is up to me but if she recommends it, I need to agree to it as it will help me in the long run. I really need to know if something is left inside me or what is going on with me because clearly something is up and my whole body is trying to tell me (more like shout) that it is not happy.
Again the nice ultrasound girl tells me that I should really do this in order for them to get a better view of my uterus.
She is surprisingly gentle and it is not as brutal as I had feared (compared to the abuse I have endured lately). My mom holds my hand tight as I close my eyes and think of my two wonderful kids and the fact that I am now a mom of two, a busy, wild, crazy but smart, sweet and sensitive little boy and an adorable brand new baby girl (yay me).
It’s all I ever wanted really, one of each, the perfect little family! I do know that things aren’t perfect, (they never are and in fact perfect might be overrated anyways…) especially not now.
It is actually over before I know it and when my mom asks if she sees anything in there she shrugs looking apologetic again, I interrupt her before she gets the chance to open her mouth and lets her know that we know the whole spiel “no she is not allowed to say anything, she is just an ultrasound technician, she is not allowed to speculate and she is not the one who interprets the ultrasound images and results”.
She smiles as she tells us that she does not see anything crazy in there. I take that as a positive and am grateful for this little piece of information. My mom sees it as a good sign as well and is hopeful that maybe the technician even cleaned things up a bit in there with her huge wand looking thingy.
Next we get rolled back up to triage acute room again by a new wheelchair pusher.
Once in the room I request to have my mom help me in the bathroom (more blood, more pain; my stomach is so sore by now) so that we can both use the toilet. I am however more relaxed and it feels like I can feel the medicine filling my veins.
We have to wait in that room what seems like an insane amount of time (for what I am not sure) but after a new round of vitals and two desperate calls from my husband wondering if they should come see me and bring us some clothes or come to pick my mom up with our son or go to bed? (It is way passed both their bedtimes).
I check with the nurse to see if we will be able to order my mom some way belated dinner and if she will have a place to sleep tonight and after some asking around, yes they are pretty sure that those wishes will both be granted.
After being taken to my room however we both realize that that will definitely not happen, the voluptuous outgoing dark haired nurse informs us that “of course your mom won’t be able to order any kind of food and nop you are not allowed to eat for the next 24 hours (not again…).
My antibiotics are quite strong and they are hoping to knock out this nasty infection in 72 hours (that is the next shock; do I really need to stay here for another three days). They also remind me again that I have to pump and dump my milk (so sad when my drops of milk are as rare as gold) because my preemie girl wouldn’t be able to handle these antibiotics (what are they filling me with?).
Naturally my mom is starving and taking one glance at the “bed” (couldn’t even be called a bed by the wildest stretch of your imagination) we agree that my husband should come pick her up.
The nurse seems nice but I feel like she is coming on to strong, happily chatting about the warm weather, the joy of childbirth (ehh…yeah…all true) and complimenting my Louis purse (I actually think she is complimenting my glasses calling them artsy but apparently that is the name of the purse…? And she is quite the self-proclaimed fashionista).
Hello, this is not a spa weekend this is actually an actual weekend and what was going to be my first weekend home with family in my own house, sleeping in my own bed after over four weeks of bed rest, a hellish labor and delivery and excessive worry over my newborn preemie.
She tells me to pee in a bedpan (glamorous) and to save my urine over the next couple of days to show her (or the daytime nurse) every time I go to the bathroom (nice!). It is still bloody but not as bad as before. I’m more than 3 days postpartum and don’t remember still bleeding this much with my first.
She takes my vitals and barely frowns as she notes that the fever is barely down but I frown however when she weighs me, how the H can I have lost 1 lbs. since being 34 weeks pregnant pre delivery??
Something is very off here…