I'm coming up on a significant anniversary this week. One year ago, I began my pre-student teaching at my alma mater, Hillsborough High School.
I had finally begun the core degree courses at Drexel then had to jump through 100 hoops to secure the placement at HHS -- but don't get me started on the field placement office or those charming individuals who work at the boro Board Office. It had been an incredibly stressful lead up but everything worked out in the end and I got to teach with my own former English teacher. I had him for 10th grade Honors but now he had inherited 12th grade AP Lit from my dear mentor. Four classes of overachieving 17 and 18-year-olds later, and we were reading Hamlet together. I only had five days in their classroom but they graciously accepted my presence there and didn't challenge my authority, even when I openly mocked the Kenneth Branagh film version (I think they agreed.)
It was a glorious week for professional and biological triumphs. The morning before Halloween I received the gift I'd been waiting for all month: my period! That meant we could finally, finally start start our third and ultimately successful IVF cycle. As I put on my spandex leggings and white puffy shirt (I was dressing as Hamlet) I wasn't thinking of anything but get to RMA first thing and wait for Nurse Anne to call back later with instructions. Halloween in a high school is a waste of a teaching day, anyway, with all of the shenanigans and mainlining sugar with subsequent crashing.
I remember driving to my lining check alone, full of excitement, ignoring sideways glances in the waiting room as I was dressed like a glam rock pirate, and just willing everything to look good enough to get the green light. This time, I'd be using a new protocol -- a more complicated, invasive one -- but one I had pinned every last hope to. Dr. Shastri loved my costume and delivered the good news that I'd be hearing from my nurse about my dosage that night. wohoo! Then I sped off into the darkness to grab a celebratory Starbucks breakfast, as it was 6:15 AM and I didn't have to be at school for another hour.
Hard to believe that was a full year ago. It seems, on some days, like it just happened and then on others, when I read back through this blog or look at the living proof of this saga napping so peacefully beside me, it seems worlds away. It's almost like it happened to someone else and I suppose in that sense, I am a different person than I was a year ago.
Monday, October 27, 2014
After the Storm
Remember that last post about how apt our naming was? True story. Just as in the play for which she's named, after the storm comes new life and new love.
Our sweet little Tess has just about finished up an epic growth spurt of clingy, roaring, vomitous fun. 5-6 weeks old? GOOD TIMES. She's stronger than I ever thought possible for someone so small and there's a new spark in her bright grey eyes that says, "Heck yes, I'm growing. Look out, brave new world!" Makes it all worthwhile to see her smile at me of her own volition - this is no reflex - and mimic my facial expressions with great enthusiasm. She sucks her thumb now, grabs onto my shirt/hair/breasts with incredible force, and even makes cooing noises to the owl we have hanging on the side of her crib. In short, a new little personality is emerging after doing battle with some epic reflux, gas pains, and general separation anxiety. She still loves to be cuddled and kept close and yes, we do still have days where there are three outfit changes apiece for us -- even Oscar wasn't spared the splash zone -- but now that we have this night shift thing more or less down, it's getting easier.
Believe me: some nights I really did think I was about to be shipped off to Bellevue because she just would not, could not calm down. No amount of cuddling, soothing or freaking milk would soothe her. ("I'm a mother, not a magician, Jim. I canna do it, Captain!!!") But somehow, we made it through, as new parents eventually do. Wee Tess is still the absolute loudest infant I have ever heard. She's Broadway bound with those pipes! I don't know where she gets her belt voice. Neither I nor her father were particularly vocal babies. I see these flashes of what life with a mouthy three year old will be like and I laugh because oh baby, paybacks...I didn't really speak until I was that old.
Our sweet little Tess has just about finished up an epic growth spurt of clingy, roaring, vomitous fun. 5-6 weeks old? GOOD TIMES. She's stronger than I ever thought possible for someone so small and there's a new spark in her bright grey eyes that says, "Heck yes, I'm growing. Look out, brave new world!" Makes it all worthwhile to see her smile at me of her own volition - this is no reflex - and mimic my facial expressions with great enthusiasm. She sucks her thumb now, grabs onto my shirt/hair/breasts with incredible force, and even makes cooing noises to the owl we have hanging on the side of her crib. In short, a new little personality is emerging after doing battle with some epic reflux, gas pains, and general separation anxiety. She still loves to be cuddled and kept close and yes, we do still have days where there are three outfit changes apiece for us -- even Oscar wasn't spared the splash zone -- but now that we have this night shift thing more or less down, it's getting easier.
Believe me: some nights I really did think I was about to be shipped off to Bellevue because she just would not, could not calm down. No amount of cuddling, soothing or freaking milk would soothe her. ("I'm a mother, not a magician, Jim. I canna do it, Captain!!!") But somehow, we made it through, as new parents eventually do. Wee Tess is still the absolute loudest infant I have ever heard. She's Broadway bound with those pipes! I don't know where she gets her belt voice. Neither I nor her father were particularly vocal babies. I see these flashes of what life with a mouthy three year old will be like and I laugh because oh baby, paybacks...I didn't really speak until I was that old.
Tuesday, October 21, 2014
What's in a Name?
On her Five Week Birthday, one thing has become clear: we named her well. Tempest.
A violent storm, tumult, uproar.
That she is, or can be, even though our sweet, bright-eyed Tess makes frequent appearances. With a set of lungs typically not seen on a 36 week-er, she defied all conventions right from the start. She has absolutely no problem vocalizing, that’s for sure. When she wants something, it’s Tempest in a Teapot mode. It makes me smile because her cry is hearty and clear. There is no wailing, no screeching or whimpering. It’s a full-on HEY YOU GUYS I’M HUNGRY/POOPING/IN NEED OF CUDDLING and she does not desist until her needs are fulfilled.
Conceiving her – and carrying her for nine months – was my personal tempest. But she is here now, safe and sound. When she’s out in public for a medical appointment, I love hearing peoples’ reactions when I tell them her name. Usually there’s a pause and a smile followed by, “I love it,” “so beautiful,” or “how unique,” “I’ve never heard that before – what is it again?” To be well named is a blessing. So is her middle name. Felicity.
Great happiness. Pleasing or well chosen.
She is our pride and joy. (Sorry Oscar, you are pretty great but we picked you out of a line-up of pups. You were well chosen, as it happens, but you did not issue from my loins.) I have always loved the name since my days of playing with my American Girl Doll, the fire-kissed patriot, Felicity Merriman. While our daughter is decidedly not named after a doll, I smile to think that she will one day inherit this discontinued --excuse me - retired -- treasured bit of my girlhood. She will be able to play with Felicity just as I did and recognize that same spirit of independence in herself.
Our happiness after the storm, a “stormy blessing,” for that is how we choose to translate her name, is the perfect distillation of her mother’s favorite play and her father’s profession. She came in like a roll of thunder and continues to keep us on our toes. Her actual birthday, now a month behind us, was a tempestuous September day and I will always remember the flinty, swirling gray of the clouds above 287 as we sped toward Morristown and probable delivery. The leaves were just beginning to turn, despite the 80 degree temps, and the feeling of something portentous hung in the humid air.
Her name captures the drama of creation and birth. It is strong, it is melodic, it has meaning, but most of all, it suits her.
Tuesday, October 14, 2014
One Month
Our happy, storm-born baby girl is one month old today.
:record scratch:
Say, what?!
It is incredibly hard to process that Tempest Felicity is 4 weeks - one whole month! - old and yet, that's the truth. What everyone says is also true: those first weeks fly by, even when it feels like the darkest hours before the dawn stretch on into infinity when she won't sleep and won't settle for any amount of time. But then, the sun rises and a new day begins. We've made it without any major incidents and have grown immeasurably closer as a family unit. As of this week, we've managed to get into a nighttime routine that means all of us are sleeping from roughly 10:00 PM - 2:00 AM which is a major accomplishment. Tess is breastfeeding on demand which means as often as every hour or whenever she isn't napping. This is a huge leap for her and though it is an adjustment to measure out the day in feedings, it is sobering to know that I am solely responsible for nourishing her and that she is thriving and doing it in synch with my body. Realizations don't get more humbling or more amazing than that.
I have been remiss in writing my daily observations over the past four weeks and I'll hardly be able to make up for it now, though I will provide some highlights of the things we've learned about our daughter that make us laugh/smile/tear up. I still owe her that letter I meant to write before her birth and I will get to it. One of these days.
Observations (in no particular order)
1. Even the most willowy, rosy infant, she of delicate feature and sweet disposition, can, in fact, sound like Tyrannosaurus Tess when she's ravenous. We call her Tessadactyl, Raptor Baby, Dino Girl, Rabid Rooter, etc. The sounds that come out of this child's mouth when she's desperate for anything nearby that resembles a boob are the funniest things I've ever heard from an infant. Sometimes she grunts, sometimes she growls, sometimes she bellows - yes, tiny T bellows like an old man - and then magically, once the nipple grazes her lips, she's as content as can be and will suck that teat dry.
2. Che bella! Those eyes! Slate grey and almond-shaped, they melt me every time I gaze at her cherubic face. It's like flying too close to the sun. She's positively magnetic and though I know probably every mother says this/feels this (even if - sorry - it ain't so) this child is mesmerizing. There's nothing static about her. She's in constant motion, whether it's climbing my shoulder, grabbing Oscar's nose, looking around the room, conducting an invisible symphony with her spindly arms, or kicking like a mermaid on her floor mat during tummy time, Tess is our dynamic daughter. Each day brings new discoveries and new possibilities. Whoever said all babies do is eat, sleep, and poop? Well, they're wrong. There is an incredible range of activity and nuance and no two days are the same.
3. Yes, exhaustion is inevitable and it does seem to get worse before it gets better but then...it gets better. All it takes is one good night trying one thing a little differently (thanks, Mom - no, seriously -- you were right) and then a switch is thrown: Eureka! Everything looks a little brighter and much more manageable with a solid 4 hours of sleep.
4. Each week will bring subtle and monumental leaps. Those first few days, it feels inconceivable that she will ever be bigger than the squirmy peanut you can comfortably hold in the crook of your arm but then she eats, and eats, and eats and grows accordingly. Though she lost nearly a pound in the first five days after birth, she now weighs well over 8 lbs (though the official weigh-in will come on Friday) and her cheeks are soft and full. The sharper preterm features are rounding out. She is finally developing thigh rolls and her fingers are plumping nicely. In short, she now looks like a healthy full-term baby. Her caterpillar-to-butterfly transformation is remarkable. Even her fontanelle has receded as her head circumference has grown and her tiny eyebrows are gaining color and definition, as are her lushes lashes. She's even got a downy mullet thing going on as her hair continues to grow in the back, if not the front. The micro-changes are noticeable to me, the person who spends the most time looking at her precious face, as well as to her grandparents who see her once or twice a week. It's reassuring to know she's picking up speed on the growth track and not looking back but it's a bit bittersweet. I had to pack away her 5-8 lb Gerber onesies today. They are too short and getting tight across her belly. I found myself getting misty-eyed. Soon, her footed sleepers are going to be too small and I will pack them away for posterity, along with her hospital kimonos and going-home outfit. She's growing up before our very eyes.
5. Oscar is the best big brother ever. The. Best. We got off to a slow start with him giving us an extremely wide berth when he arrived home from camp the day after we left the hospital. This was not the reaction either of us expected but the more we read about pet behavior and newborns, we realized this was his show of respect and concession of his former place in the family hierarchy. He refused to acknowledge Tess the first two days and barely made eye contact with us. He had to mourn his previous baby of the family status and make room in his heart to accept a new sibling. As for me, he gave me a few licks of greeting, rolled around on the floor, and then practically hid from me! I think the hormones were too much for him, plus he probably remembered the antiseptic smell of hospital from last summer. Then, slowly, as we normalized behavior with the baby by including him in cuddle time and feedings, he came around. He started sniffing her feet, then her diaper, then began licking her head and checking on her. Now, the two of them are inseparable. If I put Tess in her crib to use the bathroom or take a shower and she makes the slightest peep, Oscar is the first to let me know. He comes trotting in, door-be-damned, and looks at me like, "um, hello? are you going to do something about that noise or should I?" He protects her. He lies next to the crib, watching, until I get dressed. If she's in the bassinet, he stretches out directly beneath as if he's going to rock her to sleep.
There is so much more to write - so many musings both Rhett and I have noted during those golden weeks of paternity leave and nesting - but there's too much to put to paper. It happens so quickly and there's no catching up. Thoughts wash over us and then just like that, something new happens and they're gone. I do know that being a SAHM (stay at home mom) to a sweet potato and a fluffy muffin means my day is much fuller than I ever anticipated. It's nice to settle into a groove now that it's the three of us during the day and when papa comes home at night, the family squeezes onto the little red couch (with Oscar still taking up approximately 1/3, as usual) and all is right with the world.
:record scratch:
Say, what?!
It is incredibly hard to process that Tempest Felicity is 4 weeks - one whole month! - old and yet, that's the truth. What everyone says is also true: those first weeks fly by, even when it feels like the darkest hours before the dawn stretch on into infinity when she won't sleep and won't settle for any amount of time. But then, the sun rises and a new day begins. We've made it without any major incidents and have grown immeasurably closer as a family unit. As of this week, we've managed to get into a nighttime routine that means all of us are sleeping from roughly 10:00 PM - 2:00 AM which is a major accomplishment. Tess is breastfeeding on demand which means as often as every hour or whenever she isn't napping. This is a huge leap for her and though it is an adjustment to measure out the day in feedings, it is sobering to know that I am solely responsible for nourishing her and that she is thriving and doing it in synch with my body. Realizations don't get more humbling or more amazing than that.
I have been remiss in writing my daily observations over the past four weeks and I'll hardly be able to make up for it now, though I will provide some highlights of the things we've learned about our daughter that make us laugh/smile/tear up. I still owe her that letter I meant to write before her birth and I will get to it. One of these days.
Observations (in no particular order)
1. Even the most willowy, rosy infant, she of delicate feature and sweet disposition, can, in fact, sound like Tyrannosaurus Tess when she's ravenous. We call her Tessadactyl, Raptor Baby, Dino Girl, Rabid Rooter, etc. The sounds that come out of this child's mouth when she's desperate for anything nearby that resembles a boob are the funniest things I've ever heard from an infant. Sometimes she grunts, sometimes she growls, sometimes she bellows - yes, tiny T bellows like an old man - and then magically, once the nipple grazes her lips, she's as content as can be and will suck that teat dry.
2. Che bella! Those eyes! Slate grey and almond-shaped, they melt me every time I gaze at her cherubic face. It's like flying too close to the sun. She's positively magnetic and though I know probably every mother says this/feels this (even if - sorry - it ain't so) this child is mesmerizing. There's nothing static about her. She's in constant motion, whether it's climbing my shoulder, grabbing Oscar's nose, looking around the room, conducting an invisible symphony with her spindly arms, or kicking like a mermaid on her floor mat during tummy time, Tess is our dynamic daughter. Each day brings new discoveries and new possibilities. Whoever said all babies do is eat, sleep, and poop? Well, they're wrong. There is an incredible range of activity and nuance and no two days are the same.
3. Yes, exhaustion is inevitable and it does seem to get worse before it gets better but then...it gets better. All it takes is one good night trying one thing a little differently (thanks, Mom - no, seriously -- you were right) and then a switch is thrown: Eureka! Everything looks a little brighter and much more manageable with a solid 4 hours of sleep.
4. Each week will bring subtle and monumental leaps. Those first few days, it feels inconceivable that she will ever be bigger than the squirmy peanut you can comfortably hold in the crook of your arm but then she eats, and eats, and eats and grows accordingly. Though she lost nearly a pound in the first five days after birth, she now weighs well over 8 lbs (though the official weigh-in will come on Friday) and her cheeks are soft and full. The sharper preterm features are rounding out. She is finally developing thigh rolls and her fingers are plumping nicely. In short, she now looks like a healthy full-term baby. Her caterpillar-to-butterfly transformation is remarkable. Even her fontanelle has receded as her head circumference has grown and her tiny eyebrows are gaining color and definition, as are her lushes lashes. She's even got a downy mullet thing going on as her hair continues to grow in the back, if not the front. The micro-changes are noticeable to me, the person who spends the most time looking at her precious face, as well as to her grandparents who see her once or twice a week. It's reassuring to know she's picking up speed on the growth track and not looking back but it's a bit bittersweet. I had to pack away her 5-8 lb Gerber onesies today. They are too short and getting tight across her belly. I found myself getting misty-eyed. Soon, her footed sleepers are going to be too small and I will pack them away for posterity, along with her hospital kimonos and going-home outfit. She's growing up before our very eyes.
5. Oscar is the best big brother ever. The. Best. We got off to a slow start with him giving us an extremely wide berth when he arrived home from camp the day after we left the hospital. This was not the reaction either of us expected but the more we read about pet behavior and newborns, we realized this was his show of respect and concession of his former place in the family hierarchy. He refused to acknowledge Tess the first two days and barely made eye contact with us. He had to mourn his previous baby of the family status and make room in his heart to accept a new sibling. As for me, he gave me a few licks of greeting, rolled around on the floor, and then practically hid from me! I think the hormones were too much for him, plus he probably remembered the antiseptic smell of hospital from last summer. Then, slowly, as we normalized behavior with the baby by including him in cuddle time and feedings, he came around. He started sniffing her feet, then her diaper, then began licking her head and checking on her. Now, the two of them are inseparable. If I put Tess in her crib to use the bathroom or take a shower and she makes the slightest peep, Oscar is the first to let me know. He comes trotting in, door-be-damned, and looks at me like, "um, hello? are you going to do something about that noise or should I?" He protects her. He lies next to the crib, watching, until I get dressed. If she's in the bassinet, he stretches out directly beneath as if he's going to rock her to sleep.
There is so much more to write - so many musings both Rhett and I have noted during those golden weeks of paternity leave and nesting - but there's too much to put to paper. It happens so quickly and there's no catching up. Thoughts wash over us and then just like that, something new happens and they're gone. I do know that being a SAHM (stay at home mom) to a sweet potato and a fluffy muffin means my day is much fuller than I ever anticipated. It's nice to settle into a groove now that it's the three of us during the day and when papa comes home at night, the family squeezes onto the little red couch (with Oscar still taking up approximately 1/3, as usual) and all is right with the world.
Monday, October 13, 2014
They say it's your due date
Happy due date to you, my almost-one-month-old! I can't believe tomorrow night, at 9:27 pm, you will have been in this world for 4 weeks.
So much for due dates...
I am convinced that IVF babies come early, complications excluded, because they have a head start on other embryos. Think about it: they are fertilized under controlled conditions and are 6-day-old blastocysts by the time they implant, almost immediately, in the uterus. There's no lollygagging. No margin for error. They need to get down to business right away if they're going to make it in this world and for that reason, I truly believe Tempest was one step ahead and oh-so-ready to meet us, regardless of her projected arrival. And yes, there's the preeclampsia to thank for the speed at which the decision was made to deliver her but I do think, had I enjoyed a totally uncomplicated pregnancy, that she would have made her entrance before October anyway. My sapphire Virgo baby wanted to be born and looking back, I wouldn't change a thing.
This is pretty much the most obvious statement I could make regarding the issue but I cannot imagine still being pregnant. The last month of gestation took it's toll physically and emotionally so going a month beyond that? I honestly don't know how I could have done it without constant medical intervention. Just think of the Cigna bill I'd have run up for weekly or possibly even more frequent L&D visits for IV meds! Did you know that without insurance one visit costs $1095?! Thank goodness for our $35 copay.
I was going to save the sentimental retrospection for tomorrow's One Month Birthday post so instead, I'll commemorate today by sharing that last night, Tess successfully co-slept for 4 straight hours without waking. That is the longest stretch of continuous slumber for mother and baby since probably early June. I allowed myself a brief happy dance, trying not to get ahead of my joy. Each day -- and each night -- is a new adventure.
So much for due dates...
I am convinced that IVF babies come early, complications excluded, because they have a head start on other embryos. Think about it: they are fertilized under controlled conditions and are 6-day-old blastocysts by the time they implant, almost immediately, in the uterus. There's no lollygagging. No margin for error. They need to get down to business right away if they're going to make it in this world and for that reason, I truly believe Tempest was one step ahead and oh-so-ready to meet us, regardless of her projected arrival. And yes, there's the preeclampsia to thank for the speed at which the decision was made to deliver her but I do think, had I enjoyed a totally uncomplicated pregnancy, that she would have made her entrance before October anyway. My sapphire Virgo baby wanted to be born and looking back, I wouldn't change a thing.
This is pretty much the most obvious statement I could make regarding the issue but I cannot imagine still being pregnant. The last month of gestation took it's toll physically and emotionally so going a month beyond that? I honestly don't know how I could have done it without constant medical intervention. Just think of the Cigna bill I'd have run up for weekly or possibly even more frequent L&D visits for IV meds! Did you know that without insurance one visit costs $1095?! Thank goodness for our $35 copay.
I was going to save the sentimental retrospection for tomorrow's One Month Birthday post so instead, I'll commemorate today by sharing that last night, Tess successfully co-slept for 4 straight hours without waking. That is the longest stretch of continuous slumber for mother and baby since probably early June. I allowed myself a brief happy dance, trying not to get ahead of my joy. Each day -- and each night -- is a new adventure.
Thursday, October 9, 2014
Going Home
In the interest of wrapping this up three weeks after the fact, I'm
making the executive editorial decision to conflate Thursday and Friday
to catch up to the present as swiftly as possible. Silly me: here I
thought I'd have all this time while my daughter is "napping" to do this
thing called "blogging..." What naps, you ask? HA! hahaha.
Thursday 9/18
This is absolutely the nuttiest day, traffic flow wise, with a steady stream of testing, lactating, photographs, grandparents' final hospital visit, bath time, and farewell dinner. It certainly makes the day seem brighter when, finally, you're allowed to shower!
We are surprised by a visit from Dr. Convery who apparently fought off Garfinkel and called dibs on me for early morning rounds. She's super relieved to see that I'm up and doing well and is shocked by how large Tess is for her gestational age. She says, and I quote, "my full-term daughter wasn't even that big." (Worth noting that Convery is a wee Irish lass of about 5 feet.) I forget how truly blessed we are that there was no NICU stay, no real complications other than a touch of jaundice and some early nursing speed-bumps.
She checks out my incision, which has yet to be unwrapped, and apologies profusely because it needs to come off now. Totally dry. Apparently, I should have been allowed to sponge bathe it last night but no one told me to do that so I get a free bikini wax now. It's not so bad. She writes me a script for Percocet to take the first few days at home and says we are officially cleared for discharge tomorrow morning. Huzzah! I thank her profusely for all she's done caring for me and the baby up till now. We snap a photo for posterity and then I immediately make a move for the shower. AHHHHHH HOT WATER YES PLEASE and it is the weakest stream imaginable from a tiny removable shower head. I don't even care. I could stand there for hours using my daughter's baby shampoo to scrub the surgical tape from my abdomen which is shockingly not as puffy or distended as I thought it would be. Thanks, abs by Jillian. Hopefully the bounce-back will be painless.
After showering, the hearing test lady shows up, along with the birth certificate lady.
The photographer unsuccessfully tries twice to set up in our room but the various screenings and bustle of activity prevents the official hospital portraits from happening until 5pm or so. We do get several beautiful shots and this one is my favorite:
Could there be anything more pure than this unabashed display of love?
Soon, my parents take their leave and wish us well upon our discharge. We'll see them again on Sunday after we've settled in at home. We await our meticulously ordered Discharge Dinner special. The nurse wasn't kidding when she said the phone order would be a like a ten minute call. They don't skimp here at Morristown. We both order chicken piccata, pilaf, salad, cartons of iced tea, and a fabulous brownie for dessert. Hey, this is awesome. I accidentally eat Rhett's brownie while he's sleeping that night. Too bad, buddy. You snooze, you lose.
That night at 11:00 PM, I am instructed to send Tess to the nursery so she can get a bath before discharge. I am not sending my baby anywhere without me so I wheel her myself. They stare at me like can we help you? and when I tell them, they're like, um, you can go back to your room and we'll bring her to you. I'm pretty clear that that isn't happening so I go back, get the good camera, and proceed to stalk them through the glass until they give up and bathe her for me. At first the other nurse is all like "no photographs" and I'm like, "hey, I'm her mother" and she checks my wristband sheepishly through the glass. Then she's all, "Oops. My bad." Tess likes having her hair washed. It's sweet. Then a 10 lb. 10 oz. baby boy is wheeled in next to Tess and he is like Gulliver and she is like a Lilliputian. It's hilarious. The bruiser's two grandmothers are chatting with me and they're very kind about how "well developed" Tess is for her size/age (it's their fourth grandchild so they know the drill here.)
After the bath, neither Tess nor I can sleep so I wheel her around in her hospital pram; the lone ghost in the halls after midnight. I take her to the family lounge and attempt to breastfeed her sitting up so it's easier on my shoulder pain. It actually works for a short while and I am pleased. Groggy, now, and soothed by my two cups of Lipton deaf with honey, we return to our room just in time for 3:00 AM vitals.
Friday 9/19
Today is the day! Shift change happens at 7:00 AM. I confirm with Donna, our pleasant, motherly nurse that we are, in fact, going home before 11:00 AM and she assures me the request is in and we just have to see the pediatrician one more time. I shower, get changed, and begin packing up all the gear like a madwoman, stuffing diapers and maxi pads and jumbo nursing pads and disposable underwear in the plastic bags they give you for your personal effects. By 9:00 AM, I'm ready to go. Donna casually mentions that we may want to order lunch because she doesn't know how long it will be. I'm like, "nah, we're good." Foolish.
By noon, it becomes clear that though Tess has actually been examined by the doctor, there is some kind of delay in the form of the freaking Friday staff BBQ. Come on! Really? Nurses and doctors are disappearing for lengths of time into the parking lot and the natives are getting restless in maternity. Plus, it smells delicious and that's annoying when you've passed on lunch. We've been waiting for our wheelchair for over an hour - they won't let me walk - so this sucks all around. Finally, Donna comes bustling in apologizing, going over all the paperwork that we'll need to show to leave the hospital and order the birth certificate and take to the pediatrician, etc. I put it in my Strawberry Shortcake folder so it's all in one place. I've clearly planned ahead. Go mom.
The low-jack comes off Tess' umbilical stump and we have a magenta pass that proclaims "this is our baby" so we can get past security. They take this very seriously. We buckle Tess into her carrier. The first time is touch and go but with a nurse to inspect the straps, we feel a lot better. All clear. We get the green light and goodbye and good luck!
I'm wheeled the long way through the main hospital because of the BBQ outside of the Simon entrance. The porter deposits us at a bench inside the sliding doors and Rhett goes to get the car. Inches from daylight and reality for the first time, I assume an oddly protective air whenever a stranger comes within five feet of my baby. I am proud to show her off from afar but I do not, under any circumstances, want anyone breathing near her. A grandmotherly type clad in Polo and tennis bracelets approaches. I instinctively position myself between her and the carrier, allowing her just the smallest glimpse.
"Boy or girl?"
"Girl."
"Ah, wonderful. I always forget that they start out so small. They don't stay that way, believe me. Enjoy her."
I thank her and she leaves.
Relax. No witches want to suck her soul. Jeez. People love babies, see?
I honestly want to make it out the door before anyone changes their mind about letting us go. That and, oh, I'm probably hallucinating fairy tales since I've been up since Monday with mayyyyyybe 6 hours cumulative sleep, tops.
As Rhett pulls up, I stand ready to bolt out of there. How strange, I think. We're leaving with a baby. They are allowing us to take this child home from the hospital so we must be doing something right. It's wonderful to be discharged for the first time ever having gained something instead of repeatedly losing and healing and losing again. No organs were taken from me. A baby was. My baby who is locked and loaded in the car seat to begin the journey home.
Thus one of the longest afternoons and nights of our married life begins as Rhett and I attempt to seamlessly integrate this new life form into our home. We are certainly as prepared as we can be, though no amount of stuff can take away the initial shock of being alone with a third human being you've created for the very first time. It's dizzying and wonderful and over, thankfully, with no harm having befallen the baby. We've made it to greet the weekend!
Thursday 9/18
This is absolutely the nuttiest day, traffic flow wise, with a steady stream of testing, lactating, photographs, grandparents' final hospital visit, bath time, and farewell dinner. It certainly makes the day seem brighter when, finally, you're allowed to shower!
We are surprised by a visit from Dr. Convery who apparently fought off Garfinkel and called dibs on me for early morning rounds. She's super relieved to see that I'm up and doing well and is shocked by how large Tess is for her gestational age. She says, and I quote, "my full-term daughter wasn't even that big." (Worth noting that Convery is a wee Irish lass of about 5 feet.) I forget how truly blessed we are that there was no NICU stay, no real complications other than a touch of jaundice and some early nursing speed-bumps.
She checks out my incision, which has yet to be unwrapped, and apologies profusely because it needs to come off now. Totally dry. Apparently, I should have been allowed to sponge bathe it last night but no one told me to do that so I get a free bikini wax now. It's not so bad. She writes me a script for Percocet to take the first few days at home and says we are officially cleared for discharge tomorrow morning. Huzzah! I thank her profusely for all she's done caring for me and the baby up till now. We snap a photo for posterity and then I immediately make a move for the shower. AHHHHHH HOT WATER YES PLEASE and it is the weakest stream imaginable from a tiny removable shower head. I don't even care. I could stand there for hours using my daughter's baby shampoo to scrub the surgical tape from my abdomen which is shockingly not as puffy or distended as I thought it would be. Thanks, abs by Jillian. Hopefully the bounce-back will be painless.
After showering, the hearing test lady shows up, along with the birth certificate lady.
(I include this photo of Tess strapped up to the electrodes because it is so darn cute.)
The photographer unsuccessfully tries twice to set up in our room but the various screenings and bustle of activity prevents the official hospital portraits from happening until 5pm or so. We do get several beautiful shots and this one is my favorite:
Could there be anything more pure than this unabashed display of love?
Soon, my parents take their leave and wish us well upon our discharge. We'll see them again on Sunday after we've settled in at home. We await our meticulously ordered Discharge Dinner special. The nurse wasn't kidding when she said the phone order would be a like a ten minute call. They don't skimp here at Morristown. We both order chicken piccata, pilaf, salad, cartons of iced tea, and a fabulous brownie for dessert. Hey, this is awesome. I accidentally eat Rhett's brownie while he's sleeping that night. Too bad, buddy. You snooze, you lose.
That night at 11:00 PM, I am instructed to send Tess to the nursery so she can get a bath before discharge. I am not sending my baby anywhere without me so I wheel her myself. They stare at me like can we help you? and when I tell them, they're like, um, you can go back to your room and we'll bring her to you. I'm pretty clear that that isn't happening so I go back, get the good camera, and proceed to stalk them through the glass until they give up and bathe her for me. At first the other nurse is all like "no photographs" and I'm like, "hey, I'm her mother" and she checks my wristband sheepishly through the glass. Then she's all, "Oops. My bad." Tess likes having her hair washed. It's sweet. Then a 10 lb. 10 oz. baby boy is wheeled in next to Tess and he is like Gulliver and she is like a Lilliputian. It's hilarious. The bruiser's two grandmothers are chatting with me and they're very kind about how "well developed" Tess is for her size/age (it's their fourth grandchild so they know the drill here.)
After the bath, neither Tess nor I can sleep so I wheel her around in her hospital pram; the lone ghost in the halls after midnight. I take her to the family lounge and attempt to breastfeed her sitting up so it's easier on my shoulder pain. It actually works for a short while and I am pleased. Groggy, now, and soothed by my two cups of Lipton deaf with honey, we return to our room just in time for 3:00 AM vitals.
Friday 9/19
Today is the day! Shift change happens at 7:00 AM. I confirm with Donna, our pleasant, motherly nurse that we are, in fact, going home before 11:00 AM and she assures me the request is in and we just have to see the pediatrician one more time. I shower, get changed, and begin packing up all the gear like a madwoman, stuffing diapers and maxi pads and jumbo nursing pads and disposable underwear in the plastic bags they give you for your personal effects. By 9:00 AM, I'm ready to go. Donna casually mentions that we may want to order lunch because she doesn't know how long it will be. I'm like, "nah, we're good." Foolish.
By noon, it becomes clear that though Tess has actually been examined by the doctor, there is some kind of delay in the form of the freaking Friday staff BBQ. Come on! Really? Nurses and doctors are disappearing for lengths of time into the parking lot and the natives are getting restless in maternity. Plus, it smells delicious and that's annoying when you've passed on lunch. We've been waiting for our wheelchair for over an hour - they won't let me walk - so this sucks all around. Finally, Donna comes bustling in apologizing, going over all the paperwork that we'll need to show to leave the hospital and order the birth certificate and take to the pediatrician, etc. I put it in my Strawberry Shortcake folder so it's all in one place. I've clearly planned ahead. Go mom.
The low-jack comes off Tess' umbilical stump and we have a magenta pass that proclaims "this is our baby" so we can get past security. They take this very seriously. We buckle Tess into her carrier. The first time is touch and go but with a nurse to inspect the straps, we feel a lot better. All clear. We get the green light and goodbye and good luck!
I'm wheeled the long way through the main hospital because of the BBQ outside of the Simon entrance. The porter deposits us at a bench inside the sliding doors and Rhett goes to get the car. Inches from daylight and reality for the first time, I assume an oddly protective air whenever a stranger comes within five feet of my baby. I am proud to show her off from afar but I do not, under any circumstances, want anyone breathing near her. A grandmotherly type clad in Polo and tennis bracelets approaches. I instinctively position myself between her and the carrier, allowing her just the smallest glimpse.
"Boy or girl?"
"Girl."
"Ah, wonderful. I always forget that they start out so small. They don't stay that way, believe me. Enjoy her."
I thank her and she leaves.
Relax. No witches want to suck her soul. Jeez. People love babies, see?
I honestly want to make it out the door before anyone changes their mind about letting us go. That and, oh, I'm probably hallucinating fairy tales since I've been up since Monday with mayyyyyybe 6 hours cumulative sleep, tops.
As Rhett pulls up, I stand ready to bolt out of there. How strange, I think. We're leaving with a baby. They are allowing us to take this child home from the hospital so we must be doing something right. It's wonderful to be discharged for the first time ever having gained something instead of repeatedly losing and healing and losing again. No organs were taken from me. A baby was. My baby who is locked and loaded in the car seat to begin the journey home.
Thus one of the longest afternoons and nights of our married life begins as Rhett and I attempt to seamlessly integrate this new life form into our home. We are certainly as prepared as we can be, though no amount of stuff can take away the initial shock of being alone with a third human being you've created for the very first time. It's dizzying and wonderful and over, thankfully, with no harm having befallen the baby. We've made it to greet the weekend!
Monday, October 6, 2014
Il Paradiso: Madison 5
That second day, man...was that ever a wallop I didn't see coming. I was all blissed out in mother zen mode for a good 12 hours after the birth but then between the mag sulfate and the referred shoulder pain which left me sobbing in the middle of the night with full body shakes as Tempest cried for food in tandem, the initial euphoria wore off. I was angry that I had to endure that freaking dose of IV mess just because I had the misfortune to develop a serious complication before birth. I wanted to be free to enjoy my daughter and the "golden hours," as they're called, immediately following delivery without being pumped full of controlled substances. Rhett and I made the best of our unique situation and I'd like to think that despite everything, we did, as Dr. Garfinkel said at my 2 week incision check, "handle it with grace." The moral of the story is, though it was about a million light years removed from what I'd call my "ideal birthing scenario," it was the way Tempest was destined to come into this world and I needed to accept that.
The payoff from il purgatorio is the promised land of the Madison maternity suites. (Um, hello, 10 million dollar renovation completed in 2007.) Though smaller than my high-risk accomodatios, this room is bright and cheery with big windows looking out over, well, the parking garage (but we had lovely sunsets!) We are moved to room 5 directly in front of the nurses' station which is like Grand Central compared with the eerie quiet of Jefferson.
I like the happy, bustling vibe where I can feel like any other new mother on the ward. Our overnight nurse is young and blonde and immediately registers my shoulder misery. She squirrels away about a dozen of those snappy instant plastic heating packs for temporary relief before offering me Percocet which she assures me won't affect my milk supply or the baby. YES PLEASE, I practically scream in her face. I honestly feel like I'm being stabbed repeatedly in my right shoulder with every breath I take so if narcotics are the answer, well then, fine. She'll be with us until 7:00 AM and then again the following night. Two 12-hour overnighters back to back? That's rough but she, like every other nurse we'll meet from now until we leave, is truly dedicated to the job. This is why we chose Morristown before we even met our new OBs.
Later Wednesday night/Thursday morning, some other things happen. Yes, that's vague. Sorry. I can't really say what specifically - too much time has passed - but the "things" include another bilirubin test for Tess which actually goes up from her initial reading. That's not abnormal, as levels peak 5 days after birth, but it is concerning. Lactation Annie (for Annie Potts, because I can't remember anyone's actual name, apparently) returns and sends reinforcements every 12 hours until discharge. I will say, these lactation consultants have a tough job. They have to win over highly sensitive, zonked out, hormonal new mothers but in my case, I have "an excellent supply and letdown" so my baby is going to be just fine once she masters the swallowing thing.
Tempest is getting plenty of sweet, sticky colostrum (yeah, ok - I did try it. It's practically unavoidable as it gets all over your hands when you're attempting to express it...) via spoon, bottle and breast but she needs to supplement with formula to increase the volume of intake so that her outtake increases. We need her to poop - and fast - since that's the only real way to jolt her renal system into ridding her body of the excess bilirubin. In short, baby needs to take some massive BMs and we've got to feed her every 2 hours, whether she's sleeping or awake, to make it happen. I try not to take the news of having to supplement too personally. After all, my daughter's well-being and victory over jaundice is dependent on filling diapers so I do what I need to do, even if I'm not thrilled by the prospect of bottle-feeding formula.
In the end, Tess will have approximately 2 oz of formula total in the hospital and maybe 4 oz at home after our first meeting with the pediatrician. Fun fact: babies have stomachs the size of a grape at birth and after the first week, they're about the size of an egg. She'll never remember the Enfamil and somehow I doubt it has interfered with her IQ score but dang, some of those pasty poops we will never forget.
The payoff from il purgatorio is the promised land of the Madison maternity suites. (Um, hello, 10 million dollar renovation completed in 2007.) Though smaller than my high-risk accomodatios, this room is bright and cheery with big windows looking out over, well, the parking garage (but we had lovely sunsets!) We are moved to room 5 directly in front of the nurses' station which is like Grand Central compared with the eerie quiet of Jefferson.
I like the happy, bustling vibe where I can feel like any other new mother on the ward. Our overnight nurse is young and blonde and immediately registers my shoulder misery. She squirrels away about a dozen of those snappy instant plastic heating packs for temporary relief before offering me Percocet which she assures me won't affect my milk supply or the baby. YES PLEASE, I practically scream in her face. I honestly feel like I'm being stabbed repeatedly in my right shoulder with every breath I take so if narcotics are the answer, well then, fine. She'll be with us until 7:00 AM and then again the following night. Two 12-hour overnighters back to back? That's rough but she, like every other nurse we'll meet from now until we leave, is truly dedicated to the job. This is why we chose Morristown before we even met our new OBs.
Later Wednesday night/Thursday morning, some other things happen. Yes, that's vague. Sorry. I can't really say what specifically - too much time has passed - but the "things" include another bilirubin test for Tess which actually goes up from her initial reading. That's not abnormal, as levels peak 5 days after birth, but it is concerning. Lactation Annie (for Annie Potts, because I can't remember anyone's actual name, apparently) returns and sends reinforcements every 12 hours until discharge. I will say, these lactation consultants have a tough job. They have to win over highly sensitive, zonked out, hormonal new mothers but in my case, I have "an excellent supply and letdown" so my baby is going to be just fine once she masters the swallowing thing.
Tempest is getting plenty of sweet, sticky colostrum (yeah, ok - I did try it. It's practically unavoidable as it gets all over your hands when you're attempting to express it...) via spoon, bottle and breast but she needs to supplement with formula to increase the volume of intake so that her outtake increases. We need her to poop - and fast - since that's the only real way to jolt her renal system into ridding her body of the excess bilirubin. In short, baby needs to take some massive BMs and we've got to feed her every 2 hours, whether she's sleeping or awake, to make it happen. I try not to take the news of having to supplement too personally. After all, my daughter's well-being and victory over jaundice is dependent on filling diapers so I do what I need to do, even if I'm not thrilled by the prospect of bottle-feeding formula.
In the end, Tess will have approximately 2 oz of formula total in the hospital and maybe 4 oz at home after our first meeting with the pediatrician. Fun fact: babies have stomachs the size of a grape at birth and after the first week, they're about the size of an egg. She'll never remember the Enfamil and somehow I doubt it has interfered with her IQ score but dang, some of those pasty poops we will never forget.
Saturday, October 4, 2014
Mr. Freeze, or The Revenge of the Mag
A few posts back I mentioned being duly warned by the nurses about the charming plethora of possible side effects from Magnesium Sulfate. I was told I'd be on the IV for a full 24 hours after birth to minimize the effects of the preeclampsia. Rest assured; as soon as I counted myself out of the woods, it exacted its revenge in a big way.
After drifting in and out of consciousness through the morning hours and the heel pricking of our newborn and the constant BP monitoring/fundal "massages," I begin to feel that something isn't quite right. My left arm, the one with all the IV tubing, is beginning to ache like a mofo and that doesn't seem normal to me. I mention it to each nurse I come in contact with. They pretty much all have the same reaction: "huh. that's strange." And...that's it. No one really does anything because you don't mess with the mag hook-up on a preeclampsic new mother. The discomfort intensifies as the day progresses.
My parents return in the late morning and are champion baby handlers, which, due to my increasing pain level, I gratefully encourage. By lunch time, I can barely lift my daughter, the veins in my left arm are so ablaze. I know I need to eat some real food to counteract the meds so I request a legit solid-food lunch and am graciously allowed to order from the extensive kitchen menu. I request chicken noodle soup and grilled cheese and lots and lots of delicious processed iced tea (the kind that comes lemony sweet in little cardboard cartons, just like in elementary school.) By 2:00 PM, I sound like I have a raging cold, I'm so congested and out of it. This mag sulfate has got to go. I beg the new nurse at shift change to please, please, please take me off the juice. She says she'll check with the doctor on rotation.
Another hour or so goes by. My dad is getting pissed. You don't want to be the person who neglects basics of patient care in a hospital under my father's watch. I've seen the results. I am almost in tears, my arm hurts so bad. It feels like my muscles have been replaced by frozen steel rods and I can barely make a fist. Finally, a nurse I haven't seen before appears and says that I'm having a very delayed reaction to the mag sulfate (no shit) and that since I've been on it for almost 20 hours, Dr. Lagaduva says I can come off. THANKS SO MUCH. Unfortunately, they have to take out all the lines of the IV and reinstall the hep-lock thingy because my tubing is bent so that's a swell time.
...Speaking of swell, dang, those blog posts I read about post c-section swelling weren't kidding. Section mamas really do get the shaft when it comes to feeling/looking your best post-birth. Because of all the IV fluids, your arms, face, legs, cankles, everything looks like you're wearing a fat suit and this can last for seriously weeks. Ugh. Weeks? My feet look like Princess Fiona's in ogre form. But tonight I get to move around once they take my catheter out so that should help, right? Nope. Not so much. Movement is fine but is does squat for the seemingly permanent edema.
What I do get to experience as we wait to move to our proper postpartum quarters is the dreaded lochia flow. That diaper is coming off and its contents have to go somewhere (aka the bathroom floor) so yay! Let's get this done before dinner, please.
The very sweet young nurse who sounds like she's from Lownggg I-land returns and helps me hobble to the bathroom. I say hobble because of the foley still stuck between my legs: my pain level is totally fine, even freshly off the morphine, and I can miraculously stand up straight. I do realize that the incision itself will be numb for quite some time, months even, but the uterus has been sliced open and that is what will dully throb later on. It's nothing I can't handle, though.
We get to the bathroom, she instructs me to squat, and then all hell breaks loose as a crimson tide gushes out of me. It's hard not to wonder why they can't just suction it all up in the OR but apparently this is a mild amount of blood compared to those who give birth vaginally. I do see some of the infamous golf-ball sized clots. Woof. Just...no. A tiny person came out of me but I do not need to see uterine tissue that is as big as my baby's foot just lying there on the tile. To her credit, the nurse doesn't bat an eye. She gives me a peri bottle which I use to, um, clean myself up because I can't yet shower. I am given those glorious disposable maternity underpants which resemble cheesecloth in the unflattering cut of boy shorts. There is no discernible crotch or waistline but they are pretty handy. I'm armed with about four packs of humongous maxi pads and told that we'll be able to move rooms after 8:00 PM.
Time to eat! bahaha. How anyone escapes the birth experience with a shred of modesty intact, I do not know. But writing this weeks later, I can say that the whole postpartum amnesia thing is very real. I remember vivid snippets, yes, but nothing seems as intense as it probably did in the moment and that, my friends, is how women convince themselves to have more than one child. You conveniently forget the unpleasantness and focus on the new life you've brought into the world and immediately think, "hell yes, I'd do this again" no matter how traumatic your pregnancy was.
After drifting in and out of consciousness through the morning hours and the heel pricking of our newborn and the constant BP monitoring/fundal "massages," I begin to feel that something isn't quite right. My left arm, the one with all the IV tubing, is beginning to ache like a mofo and that doesn't seem normal to me. I mention it to each nurse I come in contact with. They pretty much all have the same reaction: "huh. that's strange." And...that's it. No one really does anything because you don't mess with the mag hook-up on a preeclampsic new mother. The discomfort intensifies as the day progresses.
My parents return in the late morning and are champion baby handlers, which, due to my increasing pain level, I gratefully encourage. By lunch time, I can barely lift my daughter, the veins in my left arm are so ablaze. I know I need to eat some real food to counteract the meds so I request a legit solid-food lunch and am graciously allowed to order from the extensive kitchen menu. I request chicken noodle soup and grilled cheese and lots and lots of delicious processed iced tea (the kind that comes lemony sweet in little cardboard cartons, just like in elementary school.) By 2:00 PM, I sound like I have a raging cold, I'm so congested and out of it. This mag sulfate has got to go. I beg the new nurse at shift change to please, please, please take me off the juice. She says she'll check with the doctor on rotation.
Another hour or so goes by. My dad is getting pissed. You don't want to be the person who neglects basics of patient care in a hospital under my father's watch. I've seen the results. I am almost in tears, my arm hurts so bad. It feels like my muscles have been replaced by frozen steel rods and I can barely make a fist. Finally, a nurse I haven't seen before appears and says that I'm having a very delayed reaction to the mag sulfate (no shit) and that since I've been on it for almost 20 hours, Dr. Lagaduva says I can come off. THANKS SO MUCH. Unfortunately, they have to take out all the lines of the IV and reinstall the hep-lock thingy because my tubing is bent so that's a swell time.
...Speaking of swell, dang, those blog posts I read about post c-section swelling weren't kidding. Section mamas really do get the shaft when it comes to feeling/looking your best post-birth. Because of all the IV fluids, your arms, face, legs, cankles, everything looks like you're wearing a fat suit and this can last for seriously weeks. Ugh. Weeks? My feet look like Princess Fiona's in ogre form. But tonight I get to move around once they take my catheter out so that should help, right? Nope. Not so much. Movement is fine but is does squat for the seemingly permanent edema.
What I do get to experience as we wait to move to our proper postpartum quarters is the dreaded lochia flow. That diaper is coming off and its contents have to go somewhere (aka the bathroom floor) so yay! Let's get this done before dinner, please.
The very sweet young nurse who sounds like she's from Lownggg I-land returns and helps me hobble to the bathroom. I say hobble because of the foley still stuck between my legs: my pain level is totally fine, even freshly off the morphine, and I can miraculously stand up straight. I do realize that the incision itself will be numb for quite some time, months even, but the uterus has been sliced open and that is what will dully throb later on. It's nothing I can't handle, though.
We get to the bathroom, she instructs me to squat, and then all hell breaks loose as a crimson tide gushes out of me. It's hard not to wonder why they can't just suction it all up in the OR but apparently this is a mild amount of blood compared to those who give birth vaginally. I do see some of the infamous golf-ball sized clots. Woof. Just...no. A tiny person came out of me but I do not need to see uterine tissue that is as big as my baby's foot just lying there on the tile. To her credit, the nurse doesn't bat an eye. She gives me a peri bottle which I use to, um, clean myself up because I can't yet shower. I am given those glorious disposable maternity underpants which resemble cheesecloth in the unflattering cut of boy shorts. There is no discernible crotch or waistline but they are pretty handy. I'm armed with about four packs of humongous maxi pads and told that we'll be able to move rooms after 8:00 PM.
Time to eat! bahaha. How anyone escapes the birth experience with a shred of modesty intact, I do not know. But writing this weeks later, I can say that the whole postpartum amnesia thing is very real. I remember vivid snippets, yes, but nothing seems as intense as it probably did in the moment and that, my friends, is how women convince themselves to have more than one child. You conveniently forget the unpleasantness and focus on the new life you've brought into the world and immediately think, "hell yes, I'd do this again" no matter how traumatic your pregnancy was.
Friday, October 3, 2014
New beginnings
Finally, after a day that feels like we've stepped through the time-space continuum into an uncharted galaxy, Tempest will get to meet my parents. Her grandparents. Grandparents. When did that happen? It sounds so foreign that something so commonplace to the rest of the world has just happened to them...to me...to us. It is a staggering transformation. My mother and my father are no longer only my own. They are now as much a part of Tempest's world as they are of mine and in turn, that nurturing, parental instinct has been transferred to the baby girl lying skin-to-skin on my chest. The two people who raised me, who I heretofore loved more than anyone else in the world, have been gently wrapped up in a new package to make way for the new little bundle of joy. I believe the transformation is mutual, if the looks on their faces as they step tentatively through the curtained threshold are any indicator.
They've waited patiently with me at the hospital since 5:00 PM. It is now going on midnight and the moment they've been playing out in their minds has arrived: she is here and so are they. They don't even know her name yet but I know that they are about to fall truly, madly, deeply in love with a baby by the name of Tempest.
"Tempest Felicity Caldwell Austell, meet your grandparents."
There are hugs and tears and Tess is swept up and out of my arms for the beginning of a lifelong love fest. It is hugely satisfying to witness something so intimate and yet so quotidien: the whirligig of time spins and changes daughters into mothers and mothers into grandmothers (also, see John Mayer's "Daughters.") I'm not a weeper but this one got me, folks.
After an emotionally exhausting day, the new grandparents head home to New Hope and Rhett and I wait for the first of the three spirits to appear.
The Ghost of Lactation Consult presents herself. It is the Indian woman from the nursery, Rhett whispers. She comes bearing an ungainly gift: a gigantic, wheeled hospital-grade breast pump. It is turquoise and looks nothing like my portable midget one at home. This thing means business. I barely receive instructions on how to operate the thing but somehow I manage. Better get used to having my boobs out for the entire free world to see. There's no modesty here.
Oh, good: she's manually instructing me on how to get my baby to latch by shoving Tess, who, let's be honest, is rooting like a little piglet at this point out of sheer hunger, onto my areola. The baby's mouth has to make an unnaturally wide choir angel "o" so that the chin is flush with the boob and the tongue clamps down to allow the nipple to glide over it for maximum suckage. Fascinating stuff, if it weren't 1:00 AM and the drugs weren't working half as well.
Do I get it? Sure. Sure, this is fine, anything to just get this baby to eat my colostrum and go to sleep so I can process what the hell is happening. The first spirit vanishes into thin air and we are left in peace until vitals time. What feels like several hours of solitude passes. In actuality, it's probably 90 min tops by the time the second ghost appears. She is the either the Ghost of Repeat Blood Work (for mother and daughter) or she is the Foley Ghost who empties my plastic bladder about 12 times before the next evening. I don't remember. I do know that we round out the visitations with an early morning call from the Ghost of Lactation Future who vows to send one of her comrades to see us twice daily because the baby is jaundiced (still?) and they'll be checking on us frequently. This last ghost comes armed with a plastic spoon which I use to manually express colostrum and deliver to Tess' lips. She loves it. Her daddy is proud that the less than one-day-old baby can manage spoon feeding. What a love.
I will go on to utilize the pump and get 5 ml on my first try which I think is squat-diddly but apparently is quite a success. Who knew? This will begin my love/hate relationship with feeling like the sole provider/dairy cow strapped to the milking device. There really is nothing to mentally prepare you for being the only source of sustenance for you newborn offspring. On one hand...duh. On the other, you're it, breastfeeding mama. Good luck!
All this before sunrise on September 17...Where the heck is the Christmas turkey? Nope. It's a LIQUID TRAY for breakfast. Eff that. I'm famished. Not really feeling the jello cup so I send Rhett for a proper Au Bon Pain hot chai. I get two, courtesy of my parents later that morning. Thanks, everyone, for keeping me in baby-friendly caffeine. Now I can greet the colostrum-soaked day with my beautiful squalling raptor baby as she attempts to nurse directly from the breast.
They've waited patiently with me at the hospital since 5:00 PM. It is now going on midnight and the moment they've been playing out in their minds has arrived: she is here and so are they. They don't even know her name yet but I know that they are about to fall truly, madly, deeply in love with a baby by the name of Tempest.
"Tempest Felicity Caldwell Austell, meet your grandparents."
There are hugs and tears and Tess is swept up and out of my arms for the beginning of a lifelong love fest. It is hugely satisfying to witness something so intimate and yet so quotidien: the whirligig of time spins and changes daughters into mothers and mothers into grandmothers (also, see John Mayer's "Daughters.") I'm not a weeper but this one got me, folks.
After an emotionally exhausting day, the new grandparents head home to New Hope and Rhett and I wait for the first of the three spirits to appear.
The Ghost of Lactation Consult presents herself. It is the Indian woman from the nursery, Rhett whispers. She comes bearing an ungainly gift: a gigantic, wheeled hospital-grade breast pump. It is turquoise and looks nothing like my portable midget one at home. This thing means business. I barely receive instructions on how to operate the thing but somehow I manage. Better get used to having my boobs out for the entire free world to see. There's no modesty here.
Oh, good: she's manually instructing me on how to get my baby to latch by shoving Tess, who, let's be honest, is rooting like a little piglet at this point out of sheer hunger, onto my areola. The baby's mouth has to make an unnaturally wide choir angel "o" so that the chin is flush with the boob and the tongue clamps down to allow the nipple to glide over it for maximum suckage. Fascinating stuff, if it weren't 1:00 AM and the drugs weren't working half as well.
Do I get it? Sure. Sure, this is fine, anything to just get this baby to eat my colostrum and go to sleep so I can process what the hell is happening. The first spirit vanishes into thin air and we are left in peace until vitals time. What feels like several hours of solitude passes. In actuality, it's probably 90 min tops by the time the second ghost appears. She is the either the Ghost of Repeat Blood Work (for mother and daughter) or she is the Foley Ghost who empties my plastic bladder about 12 times before the next evening. I don't remember. I do know that we round out the visitations with an early morning call from the Ghost of Lactation Future who vows to send one of her comrades to see us twice daily because the baby is jaundiced (still?) and they'll be checking on us frequently. This last ghost comes armed with a plastic spoon which I use to manually express colostrum and deliver to Tess' lips. She loves it. Her daddy is proud that the less than one-day-old baby can manage spoon feeding. What a love.
I will go on to utilize the pump and get 5 ml on my first try which I think is squat-diddly but apparently is quite a success. Who knew? This will begin my love/hate relationship with feeling like the sole provider/dairy cow strapped to the milking device. There really is nothing to mentally prepare you for being the only source of sustenance for you newborn offspring. On one hand...duh. On the other, you're it, breastfeeding mama. Good luck!
All this before sunrise on September 17...Where the heck is the Christmas turkey? Nope. It's a LIQUID TRAY for breakfast. Eff that. I'm famished. Not really feeling the jello cup so I send Rhett for a proper Au Bon Pain hot chai. I get two, courtesy of my parents later that morning. Thanks, everyone, for keeping me in baby-friendly caffeine. Now I can greet the colostrum-soaked day with my beautiful squalling raptor baby as she attempts to nurse directly from the breast.
Wednesday, October 1, 2014
Jefferson 37
This is the point in my postpartum narrative where I really need some fill-in-the-blank help from Rhett. I recall snippets of the long trip through the corridors from recovery to the High Risk unit. This section was decidedly not on our hospital tour so it's uncharted territory.
Rhett wheels the hospital pram with Tess in it and poor Grace is left to the task of juggling my tower of IV's and well as my hospital bed. Talk about déjà vu, though...I have done this exact same type of post-op travel three times previously so I know what's coming: they hoist your ass off the rolling bed onto the one in your room. It's not always pretty. (I somehow always find myself thinking of that line from Silence of the Lambs when Clarice is unwittingly questioning Buffalo Bill and he's all, "Wait, was she a great big fat person?" because seriously, how do these tiny women heave-ho the hefties?) I have great respect for nurses.
This time, however, I'm sufficiently sister morphined to feel pretty much nothing during the hoisting. I'm like, Hey, no biggie, ladies. Watch me roll onto this bed. They are audibly impressed. I admit I've done this a few times.
Once I'm installed, the initial vitals are taken: BP, temperature, heart rate, more blood work for me. Poor baby Tess gets what is the second or third heel prick of her brief experience on this planet and they inform me they'll be back to do it every three hours timed to her feedings. They will also be checking her bilirubin levels at 6-12 hour intervals. Apparently our sweet baby girl has a mild case of facial jaundice and they want to keep an eye on it. It's not uncommon in even term babies but younger gestational ages are at even greater risk. That's the price of coming early to a mother with a potentially imperiling condition. Tess cries for a moment as someone punctures her newborn skin but then the pain is forgotten.
Talk about crying, it's time for mama's first fully conscious, able-to-feel-it fundal "massage." The bonehead who came up with that term is severely underselling it. Ain't no massage, folks: it's basically someone pressing on your just-been-sliced-open-and-stitched-back-up uterus to make the muscles contract and shrink it back down to pre-preggo size. Oh, and talk about contractions...they don't stop at birth. Nah. That would be too easy. Even we of the caesarian variety experience the wrenching clutches of what it must be like to labor without an epidural when they come to "massage" you every few hours. That place where you carried a baby for 9 months will go from the size of a large melon to the size of a grapefruit before you've left the hospital. That's a lot of unpleasantness about to seep out of there.
Anyway...it's time to get some delicious colostrum in this baby! And time to meet the grandparents! Buckle up, kid, because you're going to be handled by approximately 35 different people over the next three days and will have countless latex-covered fingers stuffed in your mouth to check your latch, etc. Birth! So pleasant! We can't wait to get you home where the stabbing and massages will be minimal.
Rhett wheels the hospital pram with Tess in it and poor Grace is left to the task of juggling my tower of IV's and well as my hospital bed. Talk about déjà vu, though...I have done this exact same type of post-op travel three times previously so I know what's coming: they hoist your ass off the rolling bed onto the one in your room. It's not always pretty. (I somehow always find myself thinking of that line from Silence of the Lambs when Clarice is unwittingly questioning Buffalo Bill and he's all, "Wait, was she a great big fat person?" because seriously, how do these tiny women heave-ho the hefties?) I have great respect for nurses.
This time, however, I'm sufficiently sister morphined to feel pretty much nothing during the hoisting. I'm like, Hey, no biggie, ladies. Watch me roll onto this bed. They are audibly impressed. I admit I've done this a few times.
Once I'm installed, the initial vitals are taken: BP, temperature, heart rate, more blood work for me. Poor baby Tess gets what is the second or third heel prick of her brief experience on this planet and they inform me they'll be back to do it every three hours timed to her feedings. They will also be checking her bilirubin levels at 6-12 hour intervals. Apparently our sweet baby girl has a mild case of facial jaundice and they want to keep an eye on it. It's not uncommon in even term babies but younger gestational ages are at even greater risk. That's the price of coming early to a mother with a potentially imperiling condition. Tess cries for a moment as someone punctures her newborn skin but then the pain is forgotten.
Talk about crying, it's time for mama's first fully conscious, able-to-feel-it fundal "massage." The bonehead who came up with that term is severely underselling it. Ain't no massage, folks: it's basically someone pressing on your just-been-sliced-open-and-stitched-back-up uterus to make the muscles contract and shrink it back down to pre-preggo size. Oh, and talk about contractions...they don't stop at birth. Nah. That would be too easy. Even we of the caesarian variety experience the wrenching clutches of what it must be like to labor without an epidural when they come to "massage" you every few hours. That place where you carried a baby for 9 months will go from the size of a large melon to the size of a grapefruit before you've left the hospital. That's a lot of unpleasantness about to seep out of there.
Anyway...it's time to get some delicious colostrum in this baby! And time to meet the grandparents! Buckle up, kid, because you're going to be handled by approximately 35 different people over the next three days and will have countless latex-covered fingers stuffed in your mouth to check your latch, etc. Birth! So pleasant! We can't wait to get you home where the stabbing and massages will be minimal.
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