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…