We made it back to our room and, somehow, Rob convinced the
nursing staff to unwrap her from
her absurdly thick bundle of blankets to get a little daddy-daughter skin to
skin snuggle time. And none of the hospital staff liked it. Won’t she be too
cold? No, aside from my hormonal wife, I’m the most warm thing in the room.
Don’t you want to lay her down to look at her? No, I’d rather try to bond and
get comfortable with my kid by touching and
looking at her.
Meanwhile, I was still relegated to numb slug status, not
allowed to move or lift my head for 6 hours. I was just being pumped full
of IV fluids, medication, and some
sort of pain management drug
(hallelujah!). But, about an hour had passed and I was being poked and prodded
by nurses, some squishing my abdomen to shrink my uterus back down, some
literally mashing my boobs and yanking on my nipples to see if colostrum had
started. Nope- again- no labor or hormonal cues to start the flow. I need my
kid to latch and nurse for that. But, as a slug on my back and an IV in the
crook of my elbow, I couldn’t try to nurse. Nor could I hold my little girl.
And by the 5 hour post-delivery mark, I started sobbing because yet another
nurse was poking at me and I started crying because I hadn’t yet touched my own
baby. Nurses got to. Rob got to. And he even started getting good at swaddling
her and diapering her after getting meconium pooped-on.
But, over 5 hours after she was out in the world, and
without the shared experience of labor and delivery, my daughter was still a
perfect stranger. No chance to bond. No getting to snuggle and smell each other
and get acquainted to try to set ourselves up for successful breastfeeding. I
needed to have nutrients in my own system to have energy to produce. Except I
hadn’t done much eating for four days because my kidney stone made me feel so sick
and I wasn’t allowed to ingest anything for 12 hours post-delivery, and then,
only glorified broth. After I passed gas on my no-food empty-bowels (makes
sense), I would be allowed to eat watery congee. Protein? Vegetables? Fruit
juice for an energy burst? Nope, not yet.
Anyway, I hadn’t touched my kid. And I finally lost it. Yet
another nurse waltzed in, unannounced, and pulled on my nipple for, seemingly,
the fun of it. No asking permission, no warning. Just an abrupt flip of my
comforter, and BAM! And I couldn’t stop myself, I just let my brave face go and
sobbed. Through snot and whimpering, I babbled into a tragic circle about how,
let’s drive the point home, 5 effing hours had passed and I hadn’t been allowed
to hold my own child. Panicked and shocked nurse’s response? Bring her massive
swaddle bundled face and touch it to my cheek. Thank Baby Jesus, our amazing
friend Annie realized what was happening and started barking orders to unroll
my burrito of a child and PUT HER ON THE BED IN HER MOTHER’S ARM. NOW.
A little later, I was finally allowed to raise the bed into
a more seated position and snuggle more with our girl. With an IV in the crook
of my right elbw, I was still a little stunted in how much I could do with our
girl. She had a quick latch, but wasn’t doing too much nursing- arriving 3 ½
weeks early doesn’t set tiny people up for rockstar sucking skills. And I
couldn’t hold her in my right arm well, so we were a little handicapped while
we were waiting for the 7-ish IV fluid bags to be over with. But, the evening
came and went and we got word that my mom (whose original flight was booked for
May 13) was en route, since my sister is a travel-booking goddess and found a
way to get her on a plane that arrived the afternoon of Violet’s second day.
Which, more than anything, meant that Rob, who was so unbelievably strong for
both of us and was working on sleep deprivation of his very own coutesy of the
miniscule loveseat he’d been sleeping on for days on end, was going to get to
recharge at home. We just had to make it through Violet’s first night and a few
daytime hours.
This is when shit hits the fan.
I was running on nothing but three hours of scattered sleep
since I was vigilantly monitoring my need for the next IV fluid and doing my
best to try to change diapers/ get in Rob’s way while he actually changed
diapers and awkward nursing with one arm and a kid with a lazy, sleepy latch.
At 4:45 am, my mommy-sense and adrenaline kicked in and I opened my eyes and
peered into Violet’s hospital bassinet in the early morning light. Just in time
to watch my kid’s face TURN PURPLE. I screamed at Rob, who was so out of sorts
and confused and asleep, to pick her up and try to pat her back if she was
choking. I couldn’t reach Violet to pick her up myself, I couldn’t reach the
call button. Thank goodness he just ran out of the room with her and woke the
poor night nurse at the desk out of a dead sleep, and the three of them
sprinted to NICU. Leaving me tethered to the IV, sobbing, and freaked out. All
alone. Rob called me from outside the NICU, where the nurse and the
Pediatrician on call whisked our girl inside and no information or
explaination, since her English wasn’t strong. But, bless her, she was fast,
efficient, and handled shit like a warrior. (We found out a few days later that
she cried for hours afterwards, poor girl.)
They all finally came back to our room, and I was able to
spend a little time (who are we kidding- it was hours on end) snuggling Violet
and sobbing and snotting into her swaddle blanket. Google Translate finally
revealed that, shocker of all shockers, her blood sugar was super low. They fed
her a small bottle of formula, her first real meal and she perked back up and
squawked her brains out and was deemed well enough to return to our room. We
gave her a few small bottles over the day, but were conscious about not feeding
her too much in hopes she would be up for nursing a little more heartily and
getting my colostrums moving.
The day settled down and we moved into a nice rhythm of cat
naps, watching Rob tend to his daughter and the look of shock on his face while
she let loose another meconium poop while she had her tiny butt out in the open
in the midst of a diaper change. An acquaintence of mine, a LaLeche League
leader, planned to come by after she was done with work to talk breastfeeding
strategy and how to get my flow going. Early evening rolled around and she
arrived. As did some random pediatrician, who stated that the hospital should
take Violet to stay in the nursery to be more closely monitored. Not because
she had an emergeny that morning. But, because she was born before 37 weeks!
She’d been in my care for 36 hours,
without the hospital’s harrumphing or any indication that this policy might be
something we’d have to come up against. I calmly asked why it was all of a
sudden a problem that she stay with us in the room. I declined to let them take
her, as they kept saying that it’s policy that they recommend she go to be
monitored. And I cried (again, of course) but held fast, politely declining
through sobs and building frustration that everything is fine until it’s a big
bleeping deal and not fine. Back and forth, yo-yo’ing information, highs and
lows, over and over again. Something’s good until it gets turned on its head.
My friend, militant advocate for breastfeeding and German hippy-natural-momma,
finally lost her shit on my behalf and yelled that the kid would not be leaving
the recovery room, and a pediatrician was welcome to come check on her more
often if the department insisted, but she would not be yanked away from the
opportunity to bond more with her mother. So, I sat there in a puddle of my own
snot as the pediatrician obliged, left a waiver to sign, and left.
And not more than 15 minutes after, my mom arrived by cab.
Can we just take a moment to acknowledge that my husband really step up to the
plate in ways he never should have needed to and took care of me and our girl
in our most vulnerable moments. He kicked ass advocating for us, kept me calm,
encouraged me through many more tough choices than we should have needed to
make. And, even considering as much as I hurt for days before Violet’s birth, I
did my best to remain calm and on an even keel to make sure he didn’t feel
overwhelmed by the seriously insane circumstances of our hospital stay. But, my
mom’s arrival was absolute permission to break. To sob big, ugly, confused,
overwhelmed tears. To shut down.
 |
| Low res, but this wa seconds after my mom arrived. I'm so happy I have this photo from my friend. |
Rob went home and got a well deserved night of good rest.
And we all puttered through four more days of hospital stay with little
incident. In fact, we had two mornings with adorable bathtimes. The sweet nurse
who was traumatized by Violet’s blue-face sugar crash NICU visit was the one
who gave her the baths. We had so many wonderful visitors, including colleagues
from both the School of Music faculty and my office girls. We were gifted
homemade soups as I was allowed to eat more. And, finally, check out day came!
Before we were released, Violet was even treated to a little swimming session.
With an audience. Which was hysterical for both the floaty around her tiny neck
and little butt cheeks floating lazily in the tiny pool, as well as the massive
audience of Chinese people plastered to the observation window.
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| This sweet nurse is my own personal angel |
Eventually, we got the boot and happily went home. And, of
course, it’s not been sunshine and rainbows, but we’re all so glad to have the
seriously unnecessary hospital absurd chain of events behind us. I can’t
believe I’m saying this, but the 6 days of kidney stone was totally worth it.
Do I wish I had the benefit of Western pain management rather than the “hang
tight, take nothing, and wait it out” Chinese mentality? For sure. But, 6 weeks
in, mommyhood is pretty awesome. I’m so happy to have this darling girl in my
life!
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