Tag: Mystery of the Reality

July 29 Cont’d…

5:31pm

As my stretcher is trundled out of the dimness of the Post Op room, into the brightly lit hallway, I feel every rotation of the wheels bringing on more pain at my Caesarean incision.  Dr. D. and your Dad’s face swim in to view as they lean over me – is that relief I see on Dr. D.’s face, I wonder as I hear him chatter on that my son was born with the same scowl on my face that I am now presenting.  Within the next few days I would be fed the story in teaspoon by teaspoon… not everything at once… must not upset the applecart at this stage of the game or I may turn in to that  Screaming Pitcher.

Apparently your Dad went back to work after they brought you to him in the  Waiting Room for Dads.  He claims you were crying and stopped the instant he took you in his arms and cooed at you. 

Dr. D. went off to his office hours, content that you and I had made it. Much later your Dad goes back to the room I was suppose to return to but I wasn’t there. He went to the nurse’s station where they told him it was probably a backlog in post op.  He waited and paced, as other mothers who had delivered babies hours after you were born, returned to their room.  He went back to the nurse’s station to bug them.  Now even the staff were starting to question why you had not been returned and called Post Op.  All your Dad could hear of the conversation was, ”Oh, oh, I see.  Well, was someone going to tell her husband? Oh, you want me to do that… OK, OK, when will she be going… I see, OK, I’ll pass that on.” She must have been conversing with Nurse Post Op Ratched.  The phone was hung up, the nurse looked at your Dad like, “Where do I start?” and said, “There were some complications.  Your wife is going from Post Op to ICU (Intensive Care Unit). Did you know she had problems with anesthetic?

Dad’s response was, “Get me Dr. D on the phone.” As soon as Dr. D.’s receptionist answered the phone she patched your Dad through to Dr. D.  who was as thunderstruck as your Dad.  No one had let him know there were any complications.  He bolted out of his office at the speed of lightning, back down to the hospital to try to figure out what had happened. Why had he not been called? Soon enough he knew the answer – just our luck, it was Nurse Post Op Ratched – only-perform-the-minimum in charge.

Sucks to be Nurse Ratched, but our Dr. D… he had connections… being Dr. Keep ‘Em Laughing in Emergency (I mean aren’t all the best comedians born in Ireland?)… so he knew a lot of staff and their Supervisors – including Nurse Post Op Ratcheds’ Supervisor.  She’d hear about it! He had a long memory – don’t all good self respecting Irish Catholics?

July 29… Cont’d

1:30PM

Lights out for me – Action for all, Break a Leg, Baby.  See you, like Real Soon.

1:33PM

Wonder Baby touches down. I am not awake to greet your miraculous arrival but that is the time recorded on your tiny bracelet put on your tiny ankle.

5:30pm

Waves of pain penetrate the thick fog I seem to be trapped in. Where am I? Who the heck is pounding on my belly and like, why?  I can hear disjointed voices, a female, who is perpetrating the pain and a younger masculine voice.  As I try to focus to bring them into my vision, I heard them talk, the female about it is way past her shift time and why the H_ll does the ICU not have a bed ready for me yet?  She has a good mind to leave (apparently deserting her patient) and let ICU take the blame if something goes haywire.  Meanwhile she (maybe aka Nurse Post Op Ratched…. was probably on active duty at Guantanamo Bay) continued to pound on me. OMG she was pounding on my incision, that is why I had so much pain.  I stirred despite the thick fog enveloping me and asked for confirmation, “Did I have a boy?”  She snipped back at me she has no idea, not in her pay scale apparently, way past her pay scale, it seems – getting me out of there so she can go home is her only duty. 

Finally, I am able to see the young doctor sitting on an empty stretcher beside me, stethoscope swinging on his chest.  Apparently I am in Post Op that is long, narrow room, with empty stretchers on each side of the room, lights all extinguished except for over my bed. The young doc cajoled the nurse, “Can’t you find out what she had and tell her?”  Without much enthusiasm she stomps away and comes back to tell me, “Yeah, you had a boy”.  No Florence Nightingale here, I tell ya. 

Finally, the phone rings, Praise God, ICU has sent a stretcher, they are ready for me. The Torture Tootsie can wash her hands of me – she is released from active duty  once the door swings closed behind me! God, I hate to say I told you so, BUT, hey, I told you so, I want to scream at the doctors, the nurses, whoever else was part of this end result –no, I wasn’t being a hypochondriac, I wasn’t lying or exaggerating to get attention – me and anesthetic, we don’t agree, big time.

July 29 cont’d…

1:00pm

We are on a stretcher, outside the Operating Room, waiting another Dr.OB/GYN who has had an emergency Tubal Ligation to attend to before we are up… I can only feel sorrow for the pain and suffering that unlucky mother is feeling…  Not like we are going anywhere soon and from the chatter I hear, that it is a lethal situation, from the hemorrhaging she is enduring. Lucky us, we somehow… probably more good luck than good management… avoided that, and knowing my contrary body, I may only have one kick at the can…. a one and done situation… I mean as a teenager, my endocrinologist had told me I probably would never get pregnant because of my lifelong struggle with my uncooperative thyroid… BUT they didn’t know you… they didn’t know me… you were proof in the pudding… Science can be challenged… and beat.

Although it is a very humid, hot hot hot day, I feel chilled to the bone, my teeth chattering.  My Angel Delivery Nurse brings toasty warm blankets to cover us from head to toe.  As I lay in waiting I thought my poor Dr. OB/GYN. Such a gentle soul, so busy, when does he eat… (of course, less food and he’ll fit better in that room… nay, a cubicle… I was assigned to when I first came in).

Just then the Operating Room swings door opens, the drug induced mother is wheeled out, followed by her Dr. OB/GYN.  Another OB/GYN passes by and offers to lend a hand but was told that the family doctor and Emergency Expert, Dr. D. is assisting.  If you can imagine, after what we have been through in the past ten+ months, Dr. D. had the nerve not only to take last weekend off, but to give you strict orders not to arrive in his absence.  Seems you cooperated.

1:20pm

We are wheeled in to the OR.  You father has finally returned and has been assigned a Waiting Room to crack his knuckles in.  Even back then, Dads routinely attended deliveries but since you were a bit tricky and no one really knew your condition since you appeared not to have thrived in utero. Therefore, it was decided better to have a team of experts rather than a family member herald your entry in to the world.

All of a sudden the OR is totally assaulted by the Anesthesiologist, a know everything Brit… (a lot of them out there), who is rightfully peeved about being assigned a patient who is on different medications for her thyroid and heart… who claims she has a problem with anesthetic.  Why had he not heard of this sooner? He delayed the surgery by calling the pharmacy for guidance, which would be the best cocktail to bring us safely to the other side.  Dr. OB/GYN and Dr. D., sheepishly stand back, feeling chastised as my Angel Delivery nurse fusses over me, trying to obliterate the tension around us.

July 29

9:00am to 12:45pm

It seems we are going to be one of those cases everyone in the hospital hears about.  All and sundry  from doctors, nurses, even the cleaning staff… (I ended up with a spit and polish room), come and stick their head in the door, amazed and disbelieving that I am 42+ weeks pregnant since the size of my belly does not correlate with the time frame.

Meanwhile I have been assigned an angel for a delivery nurse, who had gone through this process only a year early so remembered well what and how a Mom-In-Waiting’s buttons could be pushed, shooing away the spectators to the best of her ability.  However, she had also been assigned the Mom (aka The Screaming Pitch the Dish) in the next room who was from a culture that if you yelled loud enough and long enough… as well as threw things during delivery, your baby would be blessed with a long and lusty life… I guess, I am not really up in my Scottish folk lore but according to my doctor (born and bred in Ireland), the Scottish are stoic and long suffering, with a worried look on their face, even when having fun. Dr. D should know… being born in Ireland, just across the North Channel where my ancestors were born and bred.

How do the staff, especially nurses, survive theses deliveries?  The Mom-In-Waiting screamed bloody murder for the medical staff to come.  Once they reached her door, she picked up puke trays (she must have stock piled them) and heaved them at the staff… they crashed off walls, clattering to the marble floor as she continued to wail about her pain and suffering. Once baby arrived, Mom cried copious tears and apologized but that does not in my estimation excuse the bad manners. Get a grip lady, get a grip!  You’re given your fellow Moms-In-Waiting a bad name… like we can’t take pain…I know, I know, it is not your fault that I am born with a DNA that does not participate in and or tolerate such antics. No one wanted to hear your terrorizing laments, especially if they too are facing labour and please, I beg of you, think of our babies hearing your screams, although muffled, still petrifying – on top of that, it seems you have all the puke trays… so what would we throw?

Dr. D. delivers a healthy baby boy to the Screaming Pitch the Dish in the next room.  He ducked in to tell me it is the first boy  in his last 12 deliveries, and oh, by the way, did I know that I was having a boy?  Finally a whisper, a confirmation of your sex.

July 29 Cont’d…

6:30am

I get up, feeling hung over and fuzzy… I take a shower to try to clear my head.  If all goes well, 24 hours from now,  you will be here with us, I pray.  I recheck my suitcase.  I go to your bedroom, check out your crib, blankets, bumper pad, mobile all set up and ready. Then I go to change table/wardrobe and baby supplies and vow that the next time I walked though this door, God willing, you would be in my arms.

7:00am

We left for the hospital, stepping outside to a blue sky and blindingly bright sun shine, me in a blur of fatigue, your father reassuringly positive.  However, he has just started his own business so will spend very little time with me once I am checked in.  I will be deserted, alone, no one to rant at or to get me ice chips.  Stiff upper lip, don’t you know.  Dr. D. says women born with Scottish and Vietnamese blood are his toughest mothers, who never voice complaints during the delivery process.  Let us trust my Scottish blood will live up to its’ reputation. I place my hands on my swollen belly, drawing comfort from your movement.  Are you aware, by hook or by crook, that you will be born today, Baby, I ask you silently?

7:30am

Right on the dot, as specified by the Medical Team, your Dad and I are in the Waiting Room , ready, willing and able for the first available room.  Not only is it Dr.OB/GYN’s day in Labour & Delivery but Dr. D. does ½ days in Emergency every Thursday so they will both be there to push and cheer us on, novices that we are.

8:10am

I am given a room that could only fit one Preggie lady, a slender nurse and 2 skinny doctors-in-training.  Hm, both of my actual doctors have girth, gained from years of good living.  Guess only one of them can come in at a time.

Dr. OB/GYN comes in and told me my hormone level has plummeted, you have lost more weight and no one knows why you did not grow in utero so the medical world believes the best plan of action is to avoid putting you through the stress of labour. Instead they are seeking permission to schedule a Caesarean Delivery.  I had no problem with surgery, it is just that the last time I was put to sleep, there was problems waking me up.  I mention it again to Dr. D. who flaps his hand at me dismissively as if to say, “Everyone has problem with anesthetic”… (proved to be wrong call on his part)….

So I decide “enough said”, I am the last person wanting to be labelled a “hypochondriac”… once we are alone I whisper to you… “Help is on its way Baby.  Hang in there!”

July 28

I got up and at it early.  This is my last day to feather my nest, so to speak… off I go to the pharmacies, department stores with a long list that has been checked at least three times and even bring home last minute groceries.  I see another Mom-In-Waiting in the check out line, so front heavy she might topple over, moving like a ninety year old and think to myself, in an uncharitable way, I must admit, “Like, what is that all about?” We exchange smiles, asks each others ETA, OMG she is not due for a month. Wow! Okay… stop being so judgmental…. I say to myself.

Once I am home, everything is put away, the house cleaned from top to bottom, bottom to top, so I decided to call your Grandma.  As soon as she answers the phone, I hear the, “Do Not Disturb” barrier in her tone.  It is not like I routinely call to discuss the choice of diapers, Pampers or Huggies, or the state of the union or even the sultry weather, with threatening clouds hanging low.  No, I just wanted to say to her that I will see her on the other side of delivery.  However, I hardly got my hello in when she informed me firmly that she is baking donuts and the phone clicked in my ear.  Now baking donuts is a finicky job, you have to stand over the pot of oil that is kept at an even temperature, flipping them with a fork as soon as they swell and turn golden.  Also, this is her sixth grandchild of her sixth child so it is up to me to be an adult and understand that although it is all new territory for me, it has to be “been there, done that for her”. Even so my sky rocking, then plummeting hormones make me feel you and I have somehow been rejected. 

I should know my mother by now.  She did not say she’d call back later when she was finished… no surprise she didn’t.  Cripes Katie, I have known her 31 years, how can I still worry about something I have no control over?

July 29– Early hours to just before dawn

There was no sleep last night.  First off, even though the house has air conditioning, the cool air never makes it completely up the vents to our bedroom on the second floor, at the opposite end of our basement.  It was a muggy, humid night during which your father snored righteously and religiously.  I went downstairs and stretched out on the couch, caressing my tummy, savoring our last hours together, fully realizing that outside influences will come in to play the very minute you touch down.  Still, being me, I find time to worry that the Medical World is not ready for us. Only time will reveal if I have a point.

July 16

As I am whiling away the hours, my OB/Gyn comes into my hospital room, late in the afternoon, coat tails flapping like a flag in the wind and says he is sending me home. Since I am overdue at this point, they have decided (who is they… undetermined by me), if I go home and rush around, cook, clean, visit my parents, interact with your dad and The Run Away Princess the process of going into labour will be kick started … works for me…come pick me up, daddy.

July 19

Baby Justin is born to Christine, my Prenatal Mom, with the Biker Dad.  Her Baby is a big boy and although the birthing process went without hitch, the next day trouble strikes.  Christine hemorrhages, needs a Hysterectomy…no brothers or sisters for Justin… (which is probably a good thing because of their living conditions, on the wrong side of the tracks) and Christine ends up in ICU because of the severe loss of blood.

Somehow, I was not surprised since Christine had medical problems known to her doctors (epilepsy, seizures) and yet she was not hospitalized beforehand, on the floor with the Mothers-In-Waiting Club.  Indeed her doctors and then the nurses she met up with once admitted, seem rather cavalier about her, exuding a rather “whatever” attitude.  Did Christine somehow, some way not pass the “smell test”? It scorched me to my soul to think she and her boyfriend were being judged  “white trash” because of their looks, their address and whatever else is thrown in as to conclude “you must be “…..” – you insert the word. 

When Christine and I had both gone through our separate ordeals and I visited her at home, silently, through observation, compared her mothering skills to all of the Mothers-In-Waiting I had met up with. I knew, if I died tomorrow and you, my Precious Baby had no daddy, no family, nor friends to care for you, she and Justin’s Biker Dad would be close to the  first choice of parents because of the skills at parenting they so effortlessly displayed… although they were day and night from me in work ethics, stress and laissez faire approach to life. So put that in your pipe and smoke it, you judgmental professionals and yuppies of the greater universe! Of course, that would NEVER happen since if something happened to your father, three of my sisters would fight to the death for you…my baby).

July 21

Another family doctor appointment…no rest for the weary… Dr. D. sends me for another ultrasound which indicates something, somewhere is too high or too low. Dr. OB/GYN scheduled July 29 as your arrival date.  I wear my poker card face (practiced year after year as I sat down with employees investigating what they did, why they did it and the consequence of their actions), because it is your Grandma’s birthday, on July 29. I fear if I give it away that I am delighted for you to be born that day, they will tell me another day suits them better – like the following Thursday since that is the day assigned to my Dr. OB/GYN… week after week, month after month, year after year so all his Moms-In-Waiting that need prompting to get the party started came in on Thursdays.  Hmmm…Thursdays’ Child has miles to go…

I go home pumped, excitedly call your Grandma.  It wouldn’t surprise me to think as you stubbornly held on for dear life, tucked comfortably in my womb, that this was your hidden agenda all along. Eight days, Baby, just eight days till I hold you in my arms…God willing.

July 11

As we counted down the days (after all today is one day closer to your birth … no matter how you slice it), we spent a lot if time listening and observing.  One time of day that is particularly amusing is around 3:pm when the volunteer (not some young candy striper, but little old ladies) come down the hall, pushing (or are they holding on to the cart for support – like an uncontrollable walker, the wheels going in four opposite directions , at the same time) … a Cart laden with Chocolate Bars, Chips, Peanuts and other assorted goodies.  You would think it was the Good Humor Truck on a sweltering day in the summer, at a Kid’s Park, the way the mothers run out, tripping over each other,  day after day to get their fix.  Unfortunately for the Moms In Waiting, a fix for them is a fix for their Babies who react to the sugar high by kicking their Moms in the ribs so violently, in such an aggressive, antsy manner, they almost feel insulted. 

Meanwhile, Baby of Mine, you stretch, extend your arms and legs, yawning, hiccupping, rolling over with tender care taken to not hurt me.  Thank you, Baby.  It solidifies the feeling I have that I must enjoy every second of the just “you and me” time since the minute you are born you will be assaulted (with the best intentions) of the world and its’ peoples (hanger on-ers) … at large and all of its’ influences, both good and evil.

July 14

Although it is your Grampsey’s birthday today and you have officially passed your July 13 ETA (Estimated Time of Arrival),  all is quiet on the Western Front.  No sign of pushing & shoving your way in to our world.  The twins, a robust 5 pound girl and a 4.5 pound boy child are delivered without incidence (praise God) by C Section to the Mom Later In Life.  She is a strong determined Mother and the same day is on her feet, up at the nursery reveling in joy and satisfaction.

I have to admit every time I hear of a successful delivery of a healthy baby I think of the odds and wonder where and when that Roulette Wheel will pounce on some unsuspecting family, reeking havoc.  Everyone knows odds being what they are, after so many healthy babies are born, a chance based on age of mother, condition during pregnancy, medical history can affect the outcome so I selfishly look at the happy new Moms and their beautiful babies and keep my fingers crossed. 

Please God, hear my prayers, not just the smartest baby (I admit I was that foolish – be careful what you wish for), but a thriving baby who will one day be an adult, contributing  his/her assets to a world that is in need of compassion and justice.

July 9

When the Politician’s Wife Mom had the highest possible blood pressure with out breaking the stethoscope and feet swollen the size of small countries, a decision was made to induce labour. 

Now she may have been uppity but she was no whiner or complainer so when she told myself and the Mom-of-the-Twins on the Way what she went through during delivery, we believed her. 

It seems the birthing process was a horror show, as the drugs administered in the early morning to induce labour did not do their job, so more was added, then more added, then more added, you get the picture. 

Meanwhile her Ob/Gyn, a bit of a player, flirting with the Moms in Waiting, went home, and told the nurses not to call me “when” but call me  “if”.  Very comforting message for a  first time Mom-In-Waiting who had little idea of what would happen going in to labour, and now not sure if she is ever going to be out of labour, as the compiled drugs racked her body with waves of pain. 

All thoughts of natural childbirth, all those hours of practicing breathing taught at Prenatal Classes were forgotten as she strived to hang on.  The nurses would check her dilation, try to encourage her, just an other thirty minutes and then just another thirty minutes, you are doing a great job.  And then, as slow as it had been, some where in the wee hours of dawn of the next day, it ended in a flash, no thanks to her doctor, who slid in the door, just in time to catch her beautiful baby girl slip out without a lick of help from her Ob/Gyn.

Since labour had been induced at 38 weeks, her baby jaundiced and had to stay at the hospital after her Mom was discharged, as is often the case. There she was, a bouncing Baby Girl, in the Special Care Nursery under the blue/green lights, her eyes covered, with only a diaper on, in order to break down the bilirubin. All the moms I met during my hospital stays, came to visit me in early September, along with a nanny for the Politician’s Baby and of course … all the Babies born. Now we could celebrate happy endings. I wonder what and where they are today, don’t you, Wonder Boy?

All’s well that ends well… 

July 4 (Cont’d)…

There was also a young Russian Mom who had been bed ridden since about her third month because of the threat of miscarriage. She couldn’t leave her room so I dropped in once a day to cheer her on… just can’t help myself …I was Head Cheerleader for three years in High School. I was lucky to have a variety of great Mom’s that from every country and continent and I not only liked them, I admired their strength and saw how alike we all were in our fight to have a full term healthy baby.

The hospital was in an Italian part of the city so I met up with many of them as well … but my favorite was the Italian Mom with Wedding Pictures.  It was extremely important that we would all know, just a year ago when she married the love of her life, she was a normal weight.  Pregnancy had reeked havoc she wailed – just look at her, as round as she was tall.  She had to admit, she had contributed, routinely making her hubby go out in the middle of the night to get her Double Bacon Whoppers with a side of Large Onion Rings (sometimes it was fries) and a chocolate milkshake.  Oh, and she couldn’t count the gallons of ice cream she had unwittingly downed.  Of course it was not her fault – who would have thought a teeny tiny baby could cause such cravings, she asked to any one who would listen.  As her audience of Mom’s In Waiting commiserated, trotting out horror stories of their own cravings, I mean spiritly thought, if you eat like a piggie, good chance you’ll end up looking like a piggie.

Now me, I’ve always had a sweet tooth.  Strangely enough after you came on Board that changed – now I liked salty snacks like chips and crickly cracks (cheetos) as your Grampsey (a name you chose for him) would say.  But midnight cravings? Nah! Only one time and it wasn’t a craving, more like a big old rat gnawing at my stomach lining.  It was the night we had moved, back in December when I had packed and unpacked, ran up and down the stairs, then down the stairs and up the stairs, not pausing to eat, catch my breath or even give thought to such basic needs to keep my body going. 

I had fallen to bed in a stupor to wake up to the gnawing – that’s what I forgot to do… eat… I thought.  I went downstairs, all the while hearing Dr. D.’s warnings in my ears, “When you are pregnant weight is easy to gain, hard to loose”.  I opened the fridge that resembled Mother Hubbard’s cupboard so I settled for two slices of toast with a slice of processed cheese.  In no time the rat was fed and left the same way he came. 

So I guess, we been blessed with avoiding all those cravings but some skeptical part of me doesn’t want to blame the hormones as much as the weakness of the other Moms In Waiting. Being born a critical Virgo is such a drag for those around me.