March 22, 2006
Looking Back at Peter's 3rd Week (Update: If I had known then what I know now about how to wear a baby and safely sleep with one, you wouldn't be reading this.)
Peter bucked the newborn description from the time he was born. In the pediatrician's waiting room and emergency room the week before, people asked me how many months old he was. Some people were startled by his size, but just as many folks remarked on his activity level.
This energy and alertness made putting him down to sleep difficult. He was-- and is-- a baby easily consoled, but he is not a baby who can just "sit there" and be content. He must be rocked. He must suck. He must bounce or eat or be on a walk.
While I enjoyed these soothing techniques, my frustration grew his third week when Peter would awaken as soon as I put him in his cradle to sleep. Aren't newborns supposed to sleep 16 hours a day? We were quickly regressing to as little as 6. That's not a typo. Six hours in a 24-hour period.
Every Trick in the Book
I tried everything. I could list what all I tried, but that would take entirely too long. Sufficed to say, the technique I finally latched onto was a routine of nursing Peter to sleep, then rocking him for a good twenty minutes to get him into a deep sleep, then placing him in his cradle. And he'd sleep!
For five minutes.
We'd rock some more, as I lamented not rocking longer the first time. And I'd put him down, and he'd sleep.
For five minutes.
This is what we'd do all day, with breaks for eating. HIS eating. By this point, I was down to one meal a day, when Tom got home and could do some rocking.
I did manage a daily shower, since the sound of rushing water relaxed Peter in his bouncy seat. Dressing was another matter. My bathrobe and I were one. You could forget doing laundry, unloading the dishwasher, or even sorting through mail.
Each visitor was a source of joy and panic. Joy, because she'd have a meal in hand. Panic, that the knock on the door might stir the baby before I could get him down.
Giving Up
So I decided that my present life had ended, that I was the only person on the planet whose newborn didn't sleep, and that I needed to inform friends that I must retreat from life until Peter sleeps somewhere besides my arms.
I envisioned hiring a maid with money we don't have. I mourned for the life I once had with Tom, convinced no babysitter would ever take on this child.
And I cried. Several times a day. Usually it happened when Tom called from work. I wouldn't even know the tears were there until I'd start to talk, then I'd lose it.
Amazingly, I didn't become depressed. (Okay, maybe there was some depression, but it was situational as opposed to a true postpartum depression. When you are not eating, not sleeping, not dressing, not knowing when you will ever do those things again, it is natural to cry.) It amazed me how a good hot shower could refresh me to start all over again each day. And those times I managed to eat were pretty renewing too.
Peter continued to melt my heart, and my greatest sorrow was that he wasn't getting the sleep he so badly needed. Honestly, his lack of sleep bothered me more than my own. By the end of this week, I knew something had to give.
Showing posts with label infant. Show all posts
Showing posts with label infant. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Hospital, Round 2 (Wk 2: NEWBORN DAZE)
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!
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!
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