Throwback Thursday-That my friends…was a Brady

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”

Well, that BACKfired…

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…

Throwback; Pump, dump and breathe!!

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…

Left overs…

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…

Throwback: The female anatomy, suction and yet some positive thoughts!

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…

Throwback: Magic wands, fever high and weight ahhh!!

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…

Every day is an adventure with these four… 🧑🏼👧🏼🧒🏼👶🏼

Today-

In the car

Kid #1 -ouch!!! Maxie is scratching me and pinching me really bad

Kid #2- just punch him!

Kid #1- I want to, but I can’t!!! (Desperate voice) I wish he wasn’t a baaaby!!! 😂😂😂

#NoBabiesWereHurtInThisCar #BigSistersHowever…

Before the mall

-please try to behave, be nice to each other and listen to mama

Kid #1- I will mama

Kid #2- I will too mama

Kid#3- I will three mama

Satisfied mama!

Kid #3- eh mama can I change my answer

Mama-? What do you mean?

Kid #3- I thought about what you said and all of that will be really hard for me, so I can’t make any promises, but I guess I could try! …

At Tiffany’s (putting my Mother’s Day gift charm on my bracelet)

Guard-wow mam (🙄) you have the most well behaved kids I’ve ever seen!!!

What he didn’t know was-I “threatened” them that the police would come and take them if them didn’t behave 😳(meaning stand completely still and completely quiet, never leaving my side! My oldest even asked if he was allowed to breathe and blink 😂🙄😂)

At bath time;

Sister to lil brother

-yes girls have two butts, a back butt and a front butt 😳

But boys only have a back butt and a front bun 🤣🤣🤣😅😳😳😳

Throwback: Bare bottom pictures

The man in radiology is seriously good looking, good thing I’m wearing the ugliest hospital gown ever sown, and the biggest, sheerest granny panties ever (did I mention they are see through and include an adult sized diaper…?).

Not that it matters of course, since I’m happily married but come on, could I have looked more like a mess?

My mom follows me in the stark white room with weird looking machines and monitors, carrying my valentine’s day Louis Vuitton purse (yes, I do love my husband) and the white hospital bag with my clothes.

They tell her to go outside and I feel so bad for her having to go through this with me, it’s way past 8 pm (probably closer to 9) and even though food is now the furthest thing from my mind, I realized she hasn’t eaten (or used the bathroom for that matter) for hours.

The guy rolling me here asks if I can stand up (of course he wants this underground hospital journey to be over, take the wheelchair back and end his shift) and walk over to an odd looking futuristic screen.

My feet barely carry me as I wobblingly walk over to the screen, knees shaking, head spinning. The ridiculously hot man takes over asking me to stay close to the screen with my legs and arms spread far apart, hands up, palms facing the screen.

I have to stand still in that pose with my chin up but all I want to do is look down in embarrassment because I don’t have any hand left to cover my bare bottom peeking out underneath the huge see through panties where the gown splits open…and of course this man is right behind me helping positioning me just right.

How come I have time to worry about this you might wonder, well it sure as h*ll beats letting the fear in right now…

He leaves the room to push a button several times (much like at the dentist but somehow I’m more comfortable taking snapshots of my teeth…even though come to think of it I always gag on that thing they put in your mouth before taking those pictures).

He is telling me to breathe normally versus taking deep breaths, it appears that he is checking out my lungs (I’m hoping that is the only thing he is checking out or the poor man will have nightmares tonight…let’s just say my body has seen better days).

In true hospital policy spirit, he tells me absolutely nothing as another hospital aid magically shows up with the wheelchair and my mom meets us outside the door, where she has been forced to wait. She asks me what went on in the room but I’m not even sure I know.

As we wait for yet another huge metal elevator, the new wheelchair guy is telling us that we are on our way to get an ultrasound (of course he can’t really answer questions on of what and why, he is just here to take us from point A to B) so instead we ask him about the truth in elevating legs to prevent swelling.

See, the nurse who released me and my humongous heffa lump (he was called that right, the huge “elephant looking creature” from Winnie the pooh…?) feet told me that was a myth, this guy is on our side however and tells us that elevation is common practice to prevent swelling.

 

The girl performing the ultrasound is really nice, she is actually willing to talk me through it and my mom gets to stay in the room (too bad they have no chair for her though…she looks tired, I can’t say I blame her, it has been a looong day and I wish we could just go home, go to sleep and forget that this day never happened).

The nice girl is putting the cold gel on my stomach (doesn’t feel right somehow to call it a belly anymore when it’s just not cute and round holding a baby but just big, deflated and flabby) and it feels like déjà vu but a major thing is missing- the grainy picture on the screen is no longer the baby but what is left in my uterus…

It’s weird and frightening, is there something left? Something that SHOULDN’T be there? Did the doctor leave something behind?

Last time I did an ultra sound, my baby was in there and I was beside myself with worry, at least she is out now and she is okay!

I’m still worried about how sick I am however. I’m sicker than I have ever felt in my entire life, and it doesn’t help when the ultrasound technician apologetically asks me if its ok if she shoves a huge thing up inside me to take a better look because she DOES see something in there…

 

Happy Mother’s Day 💜

Happy Mother’s Day fellow mamas~ stay at home moms and working moms, breastfeeding moms and formula feeding moms (“ANY kind of delivery”moms), Pinterest moms and amazon prime moms, moms of babies, toddlers, preschoolers, school aged kids, teenagers and adult children~moms of all ages, ethnicities and cultures! You are doing great~ keep being YOU and rock this motherhood thing!!!!❤️♥️💜🧡💛💚💙❤️#ALoveThatLastsForever #Motherhood #MamasDay #MomsDayEveryDay #WeBirthTinyHumans

Throwback Thursday: How many nurses does it take to set an IV?

Yes, that right, diving back IN…

The pain is almost unbearable and I can’t believe the nurses promised me the doctor wouldn’t check me (well, actually I can…).

Luckily he is quick and very compassionate, unfortunately he lets us know that left over placenta is his best guess and it will most likely require surgery (wait WHAT…).

Tears well up and fall down my feverish hot face and I can’t even look at my mom.

I feel scared and vulnerable but I’m really happy that my mom is right here.

Since my fever is so high and the fear of the infection spreading is even higher, the doctor orders the strongest antibiotics there are to be on the safe side since they are not sure what I have.

My mom who brought her brain asks if this will affect my breast milk (the main food source for my tiny infant) and the doctor tells us that I shouldn’t feed her my milk just in case the strong medicine will be transferred to her (pump and dump it is, which seems sad since I don’t get that much to begin with).

The nice and very feminine doctor gestures with his hands (small, with long fingers and surprisingly gentle, except when he had them inside me; hello invasion of privacy!) to the nurses that time is of the essence and an IV needs to be started right away!

Oh, here we go again; we are playing “how long does it take (and how many nurses) to put the IV needle in my arm”. My mom looks on in shocked astonishment, they seriously have five of them come and go…

I know I have been told that my veins are hard to find, but come on!! from the completely butchered arm leading to infection while on bed rest, to the extremely swollen one during labor due to the nurse’s inability to correctly set up an IV and now this…

Different nurses keep poking me, some go as far as sticking the needle in – only to retract it again, the fact that I’m used to this doesn’t make it okay.

I can see my mom’s eyes widen in total surprise at the time it takes them to do this, what do they really learn in nursing school nowadays? This is not a rant against nurses (well, sorry it kinda is but not against all nurses) I know that most nurses are amazing, skillful, compassionate people that are often just underpaid, underappreciated and mistreated, trust me I met some of them (and I even know some great nurses personally and have some in my extended family) and I am extremely grateful to them and their work, I’m just not certain that some of them are present  in this hospital room right now (or maybe my veins are just extremely difficult; next to impossible to find and I am the worst patient ever)…

When it’s all done after what felt like hours (it’s not like I’m sick or anything and extremely uncomfortable)  the nurses do apologize for sticking the needle in the worst place possible, my hand, the front part that naturally bends (well now it naturally doesn’t) and for it taking so long.

Next, things are moving pretty fast, a young good looking guy pulls up to the door with a wheel chair (hey, that’s my ride) and the nurse helps me sit down with my IV and my blankets (which I could do without but take only to cover my ugly hospital gown open to my enormous see through underwear and ginormous pad in the back!). She hands my mom a big white “my belongings” hospital bag with my “street clothes” as she phrases it (funny those were the everyday normal clothes I had been so excited to wear only hours before…well this morning…bye bye pink angel hoodie and black leggings…).

A new adventure starts; we now get to tour the hospital but only the parts that no human has ever seen before it seems like.

My poor mom finds it hard to keep up on this surreal journey of winding corridors, sliding doors, enormous elevators and empty basements.

I actually feel delirious and as I’m having multiple out of body experiences, I know I’m rambling and even laughing inappropriately and out of context at one point, and am also slightly aware of my mom’s concerned looks and the guy half sprinting with the wheelchair through the never ending, isolating, sterile smelling corridors in the undergrounds of this big hospital.

My mom, never one to beat around the bush tells me to stop being odd and start acting like myself (not a suggestion, more like an order) as she is struggling to keep up with the running wheel chair guy through the ups, downs, bends and allies.

The surroundings are eerie and we don’t see anybody until we come to the ER, which in contrast is bustling with energy and scared, harried, running, worried, stressed out people, we make a stop only to continue our journey again.

Next stop; radiology.

 

 

 

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