March 22, 2006
Looking Back at Peter's 2nd Week
Our first night home from the hospital, I curled up on the bed and cried into Tom's chest. "He's so fragile. I don't know what I'm doing."
I had imagined that all first-time moms were granted instinctual maternal knowledge at the moment of their child's birth, leaving them confident and sure. What was wrong with me that I didn't have this?
Crying every day, I clung to the family there to help. By the end of that second week, I didn't feel ready to do things on my own, but I felt like it was time I learned. I went to bed the night before my first day alone with Peter trying to imagine what the next 24 hours would bring. I even began to feel optimistic.
I had no clue.
Sick Baby
When Peter's cry woke me in the morning, I immediately noticed what appeared to be brown spit up on the side of his face, in his hair, and on his sheet. "Why isn't it white?" I wondered, resisting the urge to call my pediatrician before office hours.
After the first feeding, I knew why it wasn't white. It was vomit, which Peter repeated all over my sheets.
Several vomitting episodes and hours later, I explained to my pediatricians partner that I knew what the problem was: pyloric stenosis. I had it, as did my mother, my oldest brother, my great-grandfather, and two cousins. This is a hardening of the valve leading from the stomach which prevents digestion, enlarges the stomach, and causes projectile vomitting.
The doctor told me that it can be difficult for a "new mother" to tell spit up and vomitting apart (would he like to see my sheets?) and for me to watch it over the next several days.
I returned home, watch my son throw up three times in one hour, and called my husband in tears. "Take him to Children's Hospital and have them do an ultrasound," he ordered.
Off we went. The emergency room doctors seemed deaf to my cries of pyloric stenosis, since it doesn't usually show up until the baby is at least three weeks, whereas Peter was only 10 days. His vomitting was serious enough, though, that they admitted him.
Finally we got an ultrasound, and I was vindicated. Once the doctors diagnosed him, I thought the worst was over. The surgery for pyloric stenosis is fairly simple, and I imagined it might even be an outpatient thing.
Nope. We'd be in the hospital for several days. Fortunately both Tom and I were able to stay in Peter's room.
A New Kind of Pain
I discovered what it's like to truly wish someone else's pain on yourself.
I thought blowing six IVs during my labor was bad, but watching my newborn baby blow five was horrific on a whole new level. With each insertion of the needle, his entire body stiffened, his feet curling up. He'd turn scarlet, his out opening wide for a tormented cry that wouldn't come at first. They say that newborns don't produce tears, but I saw Peter's first: a fat round drop that balled then rolled from his left eye.
The fifth IV was in his scalp, which meant that Tom and I would hold Peter in our arms in shifts for the next 36 hours. We were afraid he'd knock it out if we lay him down, and I couldn't let him go through getting a new one.
Then there was the nose tube. It was supposed to go to the stomach but came out through Peter's wailing mouth the first time the nurse tried to insert it.
The worst part? His favorite comfort, my breast, was denied. The nature of his condition and the impending surgery meant his only sustenance was to be the IV. I held him in my lap, rocked him, tried to hold a pacifier in his mouth, and still he would turn his head sideways and root into my dried-vomit t-shirt.
The best we could do for him was help him to sleep. We kept him snuggled tight in our arms, replacing the blankets when he threw up (several times even after the nose tube drained his belly). The warmth and cuddling seemed to do the trick, and Peter slept pretty constantly until his surgery the next day.
All's Well that Ends Well
The surgery was nothing. Quick and successful, just as I'd imagined. Peter recovered easily, as do most babies with pyloric stenosis.
We did have some long hours after the surgery. We held him in shifts for another 24 hours, at first because of his IV, then later so he'd be upright and less likely to throw up. It was difficult watching him root and fuss, since we had to re-introduce breastmilk in small, measured bottle feedings more slowly than he'd like.
After awhile, I felt that if I could just put him on my breast and let him eat as he pleased, we'd both be okay. I'd be doing all I needed to as a mother, and all his needs would be met.
As we came home from the hospital together for the second time in two weeks, with Peter back on my boob, I felt like I could do it this time. The third week would be better, right? If only I knew!
Showing posts with label hospital. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hospital. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Reality Bites (Wk 1: NEWBORN DAZE)
March 22, 2006
Looking Back at Peter's First Week
In my birth fantasy, I labored at home then popped into the hospital just in time to push. After my med-free delivery, the baby remained in my room, never to see the nursery. The next day we'd bring home our exclusively breastfed, uncircumcised baby who effortlessly slept 16 hours a day.
An induced, 31-hour labor followed by a c-section wasn't in the picture. Nor was waiting several hours before attempting to breastfeed, not because of hospital policy but because all I could think about was sleeping for the first time in two days. Nor was watching everyone but me hold the baby for the next two days, as I was in too much pain to do much more than hold Peter in a football clutch to feed him.
What else wasn't in the picture?
Got Milk?
Both the lactation consultant and in-house pediatrician told me to nurse frequently and don't supplement to hasten the arrival of my milk. That is, until Peter's third day in the hospital, when he became inconsolable even with hourly "feedings," quit producing dirty or wet diapers, and had peeling lips. He had lost well over a pound and was becoming dehydrated.
On day four, with no sign of my milk, the pediatrician had us supplement Peter's feedings (while continuing to nurse) until he produced a wet diaper. Demoralized as I felt, watching him gnaw his fist in hunger was too much for me not to follow orders.
As I lamented my inability to feed my newborn like women have done for thousands of years, one nurse told me she sees it all the time with the c-section moms. "You don't hear about women in developing countries with milk problems, but they're not having c-sections." For an almost 10-pound boy born ready for a steak dinner, the colostrum of his c-sectioned, first-time mother was leaving him hanging.
When did my milk come in? I'm still not sure. I never became engorged, never felt full or heavy, never had any of those textbook signs...
The pediatrician, though, ordered me to quit supplementing as soon as that wet diaper came through, less than 24 hours after we started. She assured me that my colostrum would increase until my milk came in. Sometime since then, without ceremony, it has surreptiously arrived.
My Friends, the Nurses
Even aside from the feeding fiasco, my feelings of ineptitude surged.
I've learned dead languages in their original alphabets. So I can learn how to swaddle a baby, right? Wrong. Each time I saw a new nurse, I'd have her give me a lesson, not letting on that a nurse from a previous shift had already shown me. Then she'd leave the room, I'd try it again on my own, and Peter would kick his way out.
Every sneeze, every hiccup, every fuss Peter made had me frantically unsure of myself. I started calling the nursery for advice. Next thing you know, I was asking them to take the baby so I could have a one-hour catnap. Then another. Within a couple of days, I was sending Peter for overnight visits to his new aunts in the nursery. They still brought him back every two hours for me to feed him.
When discussing discharge dates with the doctor, Tom and I opted to take a fifth day in the hospital. I just wasn't ready to go it alone yet.
Snip, Snip
Given how everything else played out, I guess it's only fitting that my last remaining principle was out the door too.
Months earlier, my husband and I had discussed circumcision. Tom had said there was no compelling medical reason to do it, and that he'd probably opt against it if we had a son. His saying that gave me the generosity to say, "I'll let you make the final call on that one."
Well, Tom still says there's no medical reason to do it. But we did, based on the whole like-father, like-son argument. It was done by a pediatrician using local anesthetic.
Reality Bites
So much for the fantasies. My first week of motherhood wasn't the love fest I'd imagined. It was survival. I lived the week in a fog, vulnerable to the whims of everyone around me.
When I (reluctantly) left the hospital, I told myself that one week later-- certainly within two weeks-- I'd have things under control enough for me to start enjoying my new role.
Ha.
Looking Back at Peter's First Week
In my birth fantasy, I labored at home then popped into the hospital just in time to push. After my med-free delivery, the baby remained in my room, never to see the nursery. The next day we'd bring home our exclusively breastfed, uncircumcised baby who effortlessly slept 16 hours a day.
An induced, 31-hour labor followed by a c-section wasn't in the picture. Nor was waiting several hours before attempting to breastfeed, not because of hospital policy but because all I could think about was sleeping for the first time in two days. Nor was watching everyone but me hold the baby for the next two days, as I was in too much pain to do much more than hold Peter in a football clutch to feed him.
What else wasn't in the picture?
Got Milk?
Both the lactation consultant and in-house pediatrician told me to nurse frequently and don't supplement to hasten the arrival of my milk. That is, until Peter's third day in the hospital, when he became inconsolable even with hourly "feedings," quit producing dirty or wet diapers, and had peeling lips. He had lost well over a pound and was becoming dehydrated.
On day four, with no sign of my milk, the pediatrician had us supplement Peter's feedings (while continuing to nurse) until he produced a wet diaper. Demoralized as I felt, watching him gnaw his fist in hunger was too much for me not to follow orders.
As I lamented my inability to feed my newborn like women have done for thousands of years, one nurse told me she sees it all the time with the c-section moms. "You don't hear about women in developing countries with milk problems, but they're not having c-sections." For an almost 10-pound boy born ready for a steak dinner, the colostrum of his c-sectioned, first-time mother was leaving him hanging.
When did my milk come in? I'm still not sure. I never became engorged, never felt full or heavy, never had any of those textbook signs...
The pediatrician, though, ordered me to quit supplementing as soon as that wet diaper came through, less than 24 hours after we started. She assured me that my colostrum would increase until my milk came in. Sometime since then, without ceremony, it has surreptiously arrived.
My Friends, the Nurses
Even aside from the feeding fiasco, my feelings of ineptitude surged.
I've learned dead languages in their original alphabets. So I can learn how to swaddle a baby, right? Wrong. Each time I saw a new nurse, I'd have her give me a lesson, not letting on that a nurse from a previous shift had already shown me. Then she'd leave the room, I'd try it again on my own, and Peter would kick his way out.
Every sneeze, every hiccup, every fuss Peter made had me frantically unsure of myself. I started calling the nursery for advice. Next thing you know, I was asking them to take the baby so I could have a one-hour catnap. Then another. Within a couple of days, I was sending Peter for overnight visits to his new aunts in the nursery. They still brought him back every two hours for me to feed him.
When discussing discharge dates with the doctor, Tom and I opted to take a fifth day in the hospital. I just wasn't ready to go it alone yet.
Snip, Snip
Given how everything else played out, I guess it's only fitting that my last remaining principle was out the door too.
Months earlier, my husband and I had discussed circumcision. Tom had said there was no compelling medical reason to do it, and that he'd probably opt against it if we had a son. His saying that gave me the generosity to say, "I'll let you make the final call on that one."
Well, Tom still says there's no medical reason to do it. But we did, based on the whole like-father, like-son argument. It was done by a pediatrician using local anesthetic.
Reality Bites
So much for the fantasies. My first week of motherhood wasn't the love fest I'd imagined. It was survival. I lived the week in a fog, vulnerable to the whims of everyone around me.
When I (reluctantly) left the hospital, I told myself that one week later-- certainly within two weeks-- I'd have things under control enough for me to start enjoying my new role.
Ha.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
