The Compassionate Prison - Part III: "Postpartum & NICU"

Continued from previous post...

Okay... everything has been pretty much hunky dory up to this point, right? If you've been reading along, you may be wondering, "Aside from the 46 hours of labor, what's was so terrible that you needed to title this 'The Compassionate Prison'?"

DAY 1: NICU/POST-PARTUM (Thursday)
Things started going downhill with the shift change in post-partum. That cute nurse who said she was up to the challenge of caring for me as well as Trisha did was only my nurse for an hour. The nighttime nurse was decent at her job, but pretty cold and unfriendly. Although she didn't seemed like my requests were a bother to her, she didn't seem too happy to do them either. She didn't even take a second look at the three items of "Very Good Care" (communication, friendliness, etc.) that the previous nurse had made a point of writing up on the white board. I was still happy, but things just started to roll downhill. I'm sure it also didn't help that the euphoric hormones were wearing off too.

In the evening sometime, New Daddy came in to the room and said, "Would you like to go see your daughter?" Um... YES PLEASE?!

A wheelchair was wheeled in to the room and it took me a good ten minutes to get in. I should mention that sitting down was probably the most uncomfortable position you could ask a woman who had just given birth to be in at that point. I used the last bits of energy in my legs and arms holding myself up so there was less weight on my bum. Owie.

The NICU was down the hall and around a corner. We were buzzed in and proceeded to wash with a pre-soaped sponge and brush for three whole timed minutes -- a process we'd repeat about 400 times in the coming days. Back in the wheelchair. Through the inner door. Past the NICU reception counter. Right turn. Down the hall. NICU Room 354. (All the babies have private rooms at this NICU. State-of-the-art equipment and care; the whole unit had just been remodeled and updated and reopened last March.)

There was my baby. My child.

As I saw her in this incubator... this plexi-glass cage, all euphoria vanished... seeped out of my body all at once like a rushing fluid. I wept. I couldn't hold her, but I could touch her. The nurse said stroking her was over stimulation for newborn skin, but a steady, comforting, warm hand was best. I cannot describe the overpowering urge to take her out and hold her in my arms protectively.

Her little chest fluttered laboriously, struggling to breathe. The hood around her head gave her 100% pure oxygen until her lungs could be-rid of the meconium covering the membranes and handle normal air. Her sucking reflex had kicked in full steam and the nurses caught her sucking on the edge of the hood. They stuck a binkie in her mouth to help. The first thing the nurse said when I saw little Naomi was, "She wants her mama..."

I know, baby. I know.

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I was told we needed to breastfeed every 3-4 hours, but I could pump from my hospital room to save time during the night. I would just have my nurse bring whatever colostrum I produced to the NICU nurse. No problem. That evening I did just that. I got a whopping 1.5 ml (that's a few drops for those of you who aren't familiar with hospital measurements of liquid -- I know I wasn't) of thick, yellow colostrum and sucked it up in a syringe. Repeated a few hours later. Things were going well. Or so I thought.

DAY 2: NICU/POST-PARTUM (Friday)

The next morning the husband told me I needed to take a shower. I was confident I was fine. "Um, no you're not," he asserted. "You definitely need a shower."  Okay. I'll trust the man.

I was thinking about how difficult it was going to be and how long it would take me to take a shower. Just going to the bathroom alone took 15-20 minutes--no exaggeration. This particular wing of post-partum care didn't have showers in every room, so I needed to go down the hall. It was literally a shower off a storage room with a broken shower head I had to hold up to get water on myself. It was hooked up to a funny water line so it wouldn't keep a steady temperature--ever. Hot. Boiling. Uncomfortably cool. Freezing. Boiling. Cold. etc., etc. Bleeding all over the place. Annoying. Dropped the massive diaper-pad thing in the puddle of water on the floor. Call the nurse for another one. Wait 10 minutes. Shower off the blood again. You get the point... It was not a pleasant experience.

I  don't know what time we finally arrived at NICU, but I think it was still morning time. The oxygen hood was off and all she had was a cannula (oxygen tube around her nose) and her IV attached to her hand as she lay there in her isolette.

But... I could hold her for the first time... almost 24 hours after she was born.

The nurses all were nice. There was one Asian nurse whom we'll call "Nina" who had a thick accent, but was a bubbly, delightful lady. She had music going while she worked away. She hummed and giggled this "heh-heh-heh-heh-heh-heh" after she said anything and was walking away. (More on that later.)  

Later that evening, just before the 1.5 hours at dinnertime that the NICU is closed to visitors (for the nurses' shift change), the bubbly Asian NICU nurse Nina told me I needed to feed her every. two. hours. They wanted to wean her off the IV (which was good!) but baby needed more fluids to do so. They were also concerned about her bilirubin levels. I went back to my room and discussed it with New Daddy. Okay, we were up for the challenge. 

Enter Nasty NICU doctor. She barged into my room and proceeded to tell me that I wasn't producing enough milk for the baby and told us that feeding more often will help stimulate my breasts to produce more. 

Wait. Every medical book and every web site I've read and every doc I've ever talked to tell me that it's NORMAL to not have milk come in the next day after birth. Especially with your first baby, it could take 4-5 days, but the colostrum produced is plenty for baby. It's also normal for babies to lose weight, but return to their birth weight after one week. And this "doctor" is telling me I'm not producing enough? "If you don't produce enough," she said, "we'll have to supplement with formula." 

What?! I'm not anti-formula or anything, but nothing I was experiencing as a new mother was out of the ordinary. I was totally normal! But here it was as if she was telling me I wasn't good enough for my own baby. 

She talked over us, wouldn't answer questions, and left in a rush. We were dazed at the barrage of confusing information and I began to cry. We went over the things she said and got extremely frustrated. Fortunately, the husband and I were on the same page, and equally mad. That started several following days of easy cussing. We. Were. Mad.

Despite our feelings, we were in it. We made plans and went forward on attack. That night both of us woke up every 2 hours to give us enough time for me to get up, go to the bathroom, wheel me to the NICU, scrub up and nurse her. Because we baby and I are new at this nursing thing, it took about an hour to breastfeed. Then I went to the bathroom (again) and got wheeled back to my room. Repeat until 6:30 a.m.

DAY 3: NICU/POST-PARTUM (Saturday)

The next day I felt the worst I have ever felt in my life. I have been hit by a car while on a bike and sustained injuries. I've been in a significant car accident. I have had broken bones. I have been dumped after thinking I was going to marry a guy. The 2nd day after giving birth is a thousand times worse physically and emotionally. I felt like I had gotten hit by a mack truck directly in my crotch, and every muscle in my body felt like I had worked out way too hard with the lactic acid and extreme fatigue. I would try to lift myself up in the semi-reclined hospital bed, and one arm would completely give out. Coughing felt like a giant hand was punching my crotch from the inside -- HARD. 

And I was going to get released today.

This is extremely difficult to talk about still...  All-time low point #1 happened that morning. The nurses had been giving me stool softeners since it's common to have constipation following birth. Well, I apparently didn't need it. I went to the bathroom expecting it to be a difficult experience, but I had no idea. I'll spare you the majority of the details, but I will say that it was the most embarrassing, and one of the most painful experiences of my life. I screamed. (Note: I never screamed during labor.) I wept like a child. I trembled. The husband knocked on the door and asked urgently, "Anna! What do you need?!" 

I must insert here I've been remiss to mention what an angel my husband was through this whole ordeal. Actually, pretty much through the whole pregnancy, but particularly in the last weeks before I went into labor, during labor and the week following. He was pretty much Superman. Super.Man. I'm not exaggerating. He would preempt my needs before I would ask. He would calm my troubled mind with a soothing voice and words that would give the most depressed person confidence to keep going. He was serving and administering with the utmost compassion, love and dedication. 

No one could ask for a better partner in difficulty, husband or father for her children. I do not say that lightly.

Although we've been married for 7 years, we still had boundaries. For example, he always goes to the bathroom with the door closed, and hates-hates-hates when I don't. I have actually never seen him pee. Funny, I know. He had talked for years and all through the pregnancy how he was pretty sure Sure boundaries softened and dissipated during labor (especially with all the discussion about liquid color coming out my body and laboring on a toilet for hours), but at this point when I was in the bathroom in my hospital recovery room, the embarrassment and horror accompanied with this "thing" my body had done, leaving a bloody horrible mess everywhere, when he called out, "Anna! Let me help you!" I wailed, "No! No! No! Get out! Get out!" 

I cannot describe the horror and embarrassment I felt. I sobbed. The husband came in anyway. He took my face in his hands, got down on his knees, buried my head in his chest, and repeated, "Anna, there's nothing to be embarrassed about. I love you. Everything is just fine. I'm sorry it hurts. Please don't worry. I'm here for you." All remaining boundaries and walls crumbled between us and disappeared into nothingness. I felt a thick spiritual bond -- like cement -- grow between us at that moment. 

He called a nurse and ushered me off to the shower down the hall. Everything was taken care of by the time I got back.

The on-call OBGYN who delivered little one came by at the same time I was in the shower. I did not know he was there, but he waited for the few minutes he could. As I dressed between the two curtains, my nurse said he was here to see how I was doing. In his thick Asian accent he said hello and asked how I was. I said I was fine, but in a lot of pain. Would I like Vicadin? Wow. I can get a narcotic just like that huh... No, Ibuprofen will do. He said he had gone to check on the baby and was glad she was doing better. Then he said, almost reprimanding me, "Don' let you babies go ovuh-due like dat okay? Don' let you babies go ovuh-due."

"Uh, okay." 

I was pretty sure if I had to do it all over again, I wasn't going to change anything for this first one, but I suppose we'll have to make different decisions next time.

Mom's Hospital Discharge...

Knowing we needed to feed baby every two hours, and also figuring baby would get released the next day or Monday, and the husband knowing I would not be able to handle going home without baby, he checked us into a nice hotel very close to the hospital. We made our execution plan: I was going to pump every two hours and the husband would run whatever what expressed over to the hospital for the baby every. two. hours. All. Night. Long. They told us she needs to feed every two hours, so that's what we'll have to do.

I spent the afternoon in with Naomi and we went to dinner. NICU nurse Nina was, by this point, driving me nuts. Naomi was breastfeeding very well without the nipple shield, but she'd stress out and struggle to latch every time anyone would touch her or cower over my shoulder. When it was just her and me, we were fine. Nina kept saying, "Oh guuuhd. Baby eating well. She feed and poo good. Get her biliwubin down! Ohkay! heh-heh-heh-heh," as she'd walk away. They spent all day weighing her before and after feedings to see if I was doing a good enough job breastfeeding, and weighing her diapers to see if she had peed or pooped enough for their liking. 

The nasty doctor from the night before was in there at one point. She cowered over my shoulder when I was trying to feed Naomi too. Go away. When she saw the baby latch on her own, she said surprisedly, "Oh, that's really good! When was she born again?" 

The nurse responded, "Just over a day ago." 

"Oh..." She was obviously sheepish. 

The dumb doctor lady didn't even read Naomi's chart well enough to know when she was born, and there she was telling me I wasn't producing enough milk (the night before) when the baby was barely even 24 hours old!

Oh, and by this time the meconium was completely gone. Naomi was breathing normal air stably on her own. She was keeping her temperature appropriately. We were confident she could come home within the next day or so, as the doctors had eluded.

The husband spent the afternoon doing other stuff; checking into the hotel, etc. I have no idea what he did, but I know whatever he did it made my life easier because I didn't have to worry about it. Again... I'm married to Superman.

At dinner the husband and I made our plan. We were not going to let them talk us into formula.  It did not feel right!  We were going to do the every-two-hour thing. And we were going to take her home within the next day or so. Dad was going to do the talking to the nurse and/or doctor (because any discussion of this was making Mom cry), and we were going to follow our parental instincts and not let some power-hungry doctor people tell us what to do.

To be continued... (sorry)