This week marks the one year anniversary of the official diagnosis of things going awry in my uterus. Looking back I wouldn't have reacted any differently. I am still very much of the mindset that doctors are paid to worry. I was just there to grow a Ninja and make my before weight shoot up. It was for the baby...honest (mows down more cupcakes).
One year.
So much has changed.
"Well, duh, you totally had a baby!" You reply.
But it's not having the baby that changed things so much as finding that things needed to change. We are on time more often now. Leaving the house is something that requires more planning, which, as it turns out, we needed. Before, we would leave in a hurry and I would inevitably forget my wallet (much to Wade's chagrin). Now I have to schedule feedings around our habit of eating out a few times a week. No one wants my fussy kid interrupting their meal or my baby fuel tanks out on display in the middle of the Keg. I can hear the breast feeding feminists gnashing their teeth. I don't care. I'm more comfortable being modest (I know, shocker) and she's OK being under the cover. Deal with it. Having a diaper bag, which I treat like an EMS jump kit, helps with remembering my important things [Read: Wallet]. Wade doesn't see the big cow eyes and hear "I'm a kept woman?" Blink. Blink.
I can solidly say that I am parenting the way that I had envisioned. I know what makes my baby fussy (hunger, moistness and fatigue). I mitigate that but don't keep a rigid schedule. She sleeps like a champ. Sometimes she isn't happy that I am abandoning her in her crib for naps or the night. Sometimes I have to give her an extra cuddle or two. I haven't seen the terrible behaviours that those who have gone before me have warned me about. Being 6 weeks behind has its advantages. We haven't gone through teething yet. No mischief with getting into things due to her slow progress at mobility. She has started clapping and pointing. The pointing was creepy for the first time since I had never seen her do it. I was in the kitchen (she was in her chair) and turned around expecting someone behind me. No one was there. Just me. Creepy.
I didn't think I would savour my time with her. But I am. I may let her fall asleep on me just to watch her breathing. Even before she was born I was savouring that time. Not working since last May has slowed life to a delicious crawl. The lack of guilt of returning to a job that I would despise for interrupting that time, has been refreshing. Instead, I am looking forward to re-entering the hallowed halls of learning. I know now that my true passion is, and always has been, healthcare. What that will look like in 5-10 years, is unclear. But I know that being a stay at home mom is not what is going to keep me completely happy. It's not that I don't want to continue savouring this time alone with her. It's that I know that in order to be a good mom, I have to be happy. I have learned that the time I will have with her, when my new career is in full swing, is sacred.
There has been nothing totally shocking about the past year. You just do what you have to do. Even if it means dealing with bodily fluids that aren't mine. Being able to take a step back or a time out when the old patience are running thin, is a gift. Everyone should try it. And the naps! Oh how I love my naps.
But best of all, I have seen my Ninja go from an endangered fetus to a healthy baby in due course. The struggles seemed insurmountable to those on the outside looking in. But we made it look easy because that's how we roll.
Wednesday, July 23, 2014
Thursday, February 27, 2014
Breast Feeding: Fun Bags to Feed Bags
Boys, this is about boobs and the other job they are supposed to do. Apparently they don't just hold shooters, sell beer and help me get out of speeding tickets.
Breast feeding is not a picnic. Sure it helps to bond you to the baby and you get to slow down (read: ignore) your daily tasks. But it is a minefield of engorgement, leakage, wet shirts and saying things like "I need something to increase my milk production" to complete strangers.
My life as a dairy had a bumpy start. From not being told what kind of pump gets things going to being threatened with medication (which made a huge difference) to having my baby pulled off of donor milk because "it's too expensive". The LPNs were on and on about getting the trickle turned into a raging river. Have you seen your doctor about the drugs? Have you tried the tea? Have you hung upside down like a bat? Have you incorporated the services of an old priest and a young priest? Then there was the lactation consultant.
To my lady friends who have a less than ample bosom, lactation consultant is the job for you. All you need is a nipple apparently. I met with a particularly poorly endowed one at the PLC after I had a slow start to the expected raging twin milk eruptions. She stood there and showed me the common sense things I already knew. Thanks YouTube. She daintily pinched at her nipple region to demonstrate how to shoot milk across the room. She moved on to man handling and warm cloths and more man handling. Has your husband got in there and helped? And is the pump attachment the correct size, is she latching properly, blah and blah and more blah. By the time she was finished fiddling with her nipple, I was done. I went to my doctor and got the drugs. Within days I was producing more. Not a huge quantity since my body is wiser than the medical professionals about how much the Ninja needs. I started to feel better about all things milk related.
Once we were away from the heap of inconsistent messages that is the hospital, things got better. Feeding has been easy. Growing was slow to start but has been better over time. Thanks butter! Our timing has gotten better with social interactions. I try to avoid feeding her in public lest someone should notice and say something. Thankfully the hooter hider I employ looks like a giant bib. Eating for the Ninja at a moderately high end restaurant is a snap. No one has said anything so far. I'm not sure if it's because they are too shocked or just don't care. But if you wait on us without speaking out, you will get a larger tip. Sass me and I'll drop that to 10%.
So here's what I have learned in six months of being a Boobie Bistro:
1. After a cold c section, things don't just start up. Those sweater cows may feel engorged but they're just kidding.
2. Colostrum is liquid gold. Don't spill it or drop it or fail to capture it. You have been warned. Ring your shirt out if need be.
3. You can't breast feed a baby with a feeding tube in her mouth.
4. Nurses have their opinions, LPNs have opinions and lactation consultants have their opinions. None are consistent. Take what is useful and discard the rest.
5. As soon as you sit down to eat, if the child has not yet been fed, you will not be eating first. Baby eats first.
6. If the above happens and you're stubborn like I am when it comes to eating, cover the baby so there are no food stains on the clothes.
7. Eating happens everywhere. Embrace it.
8. Bébé Au Lait makes a good cover. Get two.
9. There is no need to be an asshole about feeding your baby.
10. Be patient. The dairy will open eventually.
Breast feeding is not a picnic. Sure it helps to bond you to the baby and you get to slow down (read: ignore) your daily tasks. But it is a minefield of engorgement, leakage, wet shirts and saying things like "I need something to increase my milk production" to complete strangers.
My life as a dairy had a bumpy start. From not being told what kind of pump gets things going to being threatened with medication (which made a huge difference) to having my baby pulled off of donor milk because "it's too expensive". The LPNs were on and on about getting the trickle turned into a raging river. Have you seen your doctor about the drugs? Have you tried the tea? Have you hung upside down like a bat? Have you incorporated the services of an old priest and a young priest? Then there was the lactation consultant.
To my lady friends who have a less than ample bosom, lactation consultant is the job for you. All you need is a nipple apparently. I met with a particularly poorly endowed one at the PLC after I had a slow start to the expected raging twin milk eruptions. She stood there and showed me the common sense things I already knew. Thanks YouTube. She daintily pinched at her nipple region to demonstrate how to shoot milk across the room. She moved on to man handling and warm cloths and more man handling. Has your husband got in there and helped? And is the pump attachment the correct size, is she latching properly, blah and blah and more blah. By the time she was finished fiddling with her nipple, I was done. I went to my doctor and got the drugs. Within days I was producing more. Not a huge quantity since my body is wiser than the medical professionals about how much the Ninja needs. I started to feel better about all things milk related.
Once we were away from the heap of inconsistent messages that is the hospital, things got better. Feeding has been easy. Growing was slow to start but has been better over time. Thanks butter! Our timing has gotten better with social interactions. I try to avoid feeding her in public lest someone should notice and say something. Thankfully the hooter hider I employ looks like a giant bib. Eating for the Ninja at a moderately high end restaurant is a snap. No one has said anything so far. I'm not sure if it's because they are too shocked or just don't care. But if you wait on us without speaking out, you will get a larger tip. Sass me and I'll drop that to 10%.
So here's what I have learned in six months of being a Boobie Bistro:
1. After a cold c section, things don't just start up. Those sweater cows may feel engorged but they're just kidding.
2. Colostrum is liquid gold. Don't spill it or drop it or fail to capture it. You have been warned. Ring your shirt out if need be.
3. You can't breast feed a baby with a feeding tube in her mouth.
4. Nurses have their opinions, LPNs have opinions and lactation consultants have their opinions. None are consistent. Take what is useful and discard the rest.
5. As soon as you sit down to eat, if the child has not yet been fed, you will not be eating first. Baby eats first.
6. If the above happens and you're stubborn like I am when it comes to eating, cover the baby so there are no food stains on the clothes.
7. Eating happens everywhere. Embrace it.
8. Bébé Au Lait makes a good cover. Get two.
9. There is no need to be an asshole about feeding your baby.
10. Be patient. The dairy will open eventually.
Saturday, February 1, 2014
The Making of the Ninja
No, not THAT kind of making of her. Perv.
We started trying to make a baby in June of 2010. It was pretty casual the whole time since Wade was attending Royal Roads for his masters. We didn't want to aggressively add to the financial fun that was tuition payments, residency and travel. But once he was finished his last residency we were a bit more serious, albeit not like rabid rabbits. If it happened, it happened.
After year 2 passed and I was still not pregnant, we decided to seek out medical advice. Our regular doctor referred us to the local fertility clinic. It took three months to get in. He said we would probably get pregnant before the appointment. Not so.
We went in for our appointment. We were probably the only couple in there who weren't passionately pursuing parenthood. There were quite a few couples in for various reasons. IVF or that procedure where they rinse off the sperm and inject them right by the Fallopian tube (since apparently sperm don't ask for directions) or fertility drugs. We just wanted to make sure the plumbing was up to code. No heroics were going to be pursued. Our doctor was a quaint little man. He had a bit of a sense of humour, which is more than welcome when we are talking about the delicacies of our respective undercarriages. He wrote out the requisitions for the tests. There was to be a barrage.
OK, barrage is hardly what it was. For Wade. There are 5 tests that are completed. Four for me and one for him. The four for me were two blood tests, an ultrasound (transvag, whoo hoo!) and an Hysterosalpingogram (HSG). For Wade; an orgasm. In a clinical setting. Hardly a blip on his day.
The blood tests were fine. The ultrasound was performed by an angry lesbian who clearly had sworn off women. OK, I'm not actually sure about her sexual orientation. I just assume anyone that angry with a probe clearly hates vaginas. She was also not very nice. I limped out of there thinking the worst was over. HA!
I reported to the 4th floor X-ray at the Foothills Hospital for my HSG. The pamphlet had described the procedure as "simple" with "slight discomfort". My friend had also assured me that it was no biggie and I would be fine. They prescribed Naproxen for any discomfort.
We were called in four at a time. Remove the cloths from the waist down, put on this here gown. Leave your bra on, take your valuables, put on another gown backwards to prevent drafts and have a seat. Yep. Four of us, in a hall, sans pants. It was weird, knowing that there may have been a bare ass or two previously perched on the chair that I was currently occupying. We were called in one at a time (obviously) clutching our valuables, oblivious to what we were going to go through. The girls that went ahead of me went in without incident and came out on the other side, seemingly unscathed. My turn came.
I walked in and was directed to a steel table with an x-ray hanging overhead. An HSG is an x-ray of the uterus and surrounding structures. It allows the doctor to see whether the Fallopian tubes are open or not. They do this by injecting iodine into the uterus and watch for it to flow out through the tubes. Simple, right? Pfffft.
I assumed the position. Slid down. Slid down some more. And relaxed. Warning: The next bit is graphic.
After having the usual tools of the gynaecological trade inserted uneventfully, my cervix was shucked open. OK, this must be the discomfort they were talking about in the pamphlet. The pipette was inserted through my freshly shucked cervix. More intense discomfort. The iodine was then injected. I may have been a bit loud with my expletives. I immediately began Lamaze breathing (who needs a course?) and hoped my uterus wouldn't explode. I also thought if this was what contractions (never mind pushing the baby out) would feel like, then I would be tapping out rather quickly. The x-ray was taken.
"Oh look there," said the Spanish Inquisition style doctor.
I looked. The iodine was coming out one side. I was still breathing rather hard and swearing (under my breath now).
"If you want, I can inject more dye to open up that left side."
"NO!" I was ok with half off my fertility.
"Are you sure, I have quite a bit that I can inject to try to get that open." This guy was slowly morphing into a Nazi doctor at a death camp.
"No, no, I'm quite fine with this," I said, as I started moving to get off the table with everything still in. Leaving with his instruments seemed like a good plan. I could deal with them later.
He was quick to encourage me to relax as he removed everything. I sat up slowly since I started feeling nauseous and a bit faint. The nurse gave me a wash cloth for when gravity caught hold of any residual iodine. He mentioned that he would send his findings to my doctor and sent me on my way.
Moderately traumatized, I got dressed and left. I spent the rest of the day curled up in a ball with the cramping. The naproxen did nothing. If it did, I don't want to think of what kind of pain I would have had.
A few weeks later we went back to discuss the findings with the fertility doctor. Wade's results were normal. My blood tests were normal. My ovaries had some follicles. Then he came to the HSG results.
"I'd like to repeat the HSG," he said while turning the monitor so we could see it,
Fuck that, I thought to myself. I calmly explained the false advertising in the pamphlet and how much it had hurt.
Then he said, "you may have just had a little cramp."
A little cramp?
I wondered how he would feel with one of his nuts squished into his eye. "This may pinch a little," I would say.
"A repeat on the HSG would show us for sure if this Fallopian tube is blocked."
"Fine." He gave me the requisition and I booked it.
The second one didn't hurt even remotely as bad. Shortly before I was set to have it, I managed to injure my shoulder and rediscovered that I am allergic to the naproxen. So I took a Tylenol instead.
December 17, 2012 we went back and he confirmed that it was blocked, it was good information to have. He gave me a prescription for fertility drugs, which I eventually shredded.
At the same time that all of this fun had been going on, I had been taking my temperature and recording it an app called My Fertility Friend. I was curious to see if I was having all the signs of ovulation. I was.
Shortly after I was diagnosed with "unspecified infertility", two of my friends had babies. The day the second one was born, we conceived Adriana. It took a couple weeks to get a positive pregnancy test. The first one was negative. The second one was positive. I showed it to Wade and his response was "what am I looking at?" I explained and pointed and he said "I'll need three tests and they'll have to be peer reviewed." Typical scientist. A couple days later I give him 2 more tests. One was a bright pink plus sign, the other said Pregnant 1-2 weeks.
Then the fun began.
We started trying to make a baby in June of 2010. It was pretty casual the whole time since Wade was attending Royal Roads for his masters. We didn't want to aggressively add to the financial fun that was tuition payments, residency and travel. But once he was finished his last residency we were a bit more serious, albeit not like rabid rabbits. If it happened, it happened.
After year 2 passed and I was still not pregnant, we decided to seek out medical advice. Our regular doctor referred us to the local fertility clinic. It took three months to get in. He said we would probably get pregnant before the appointment. Not so.
We went in for our appointment. We were probably the only couple in there who weren't passionately pursuing parenthood. There were quite a few couples in for various reasons. IVF or that procedure where they rinse off the sperm and inject them right by the Fallopian tube (since apparently sperm don't ask for directions) or fertility drugs. We just wanted to make sure the plumbing was up to code. No heroics were going to be pursued. Our doctor was a quaint little man. He had a bit of a sense of humour, which is more than welcome when we are talking about the delicacies of our respective undercarriages. He wrote out the requisitions for the tests. There was to be a barrage.
OK, barrage is hardly what it was. For Wade. There are 5 tests that are completed. Four for me and one for him. The four for me were two blood tests, an ultrasound (transvag, whoo hoo!) and an Hysterosalpingogram (HSG). For Wade; an orgasm. In a clinical setting. Hardly a blip on his day.
The blood tests were fine. The ultrasound was performed by an angry lesbian who clearly had sworn off women. OK, I'm not actually sure about her sexual orientation. I just assume anyone that angry with a probe clearly hates vaginas. She was also not very nice. I limped out of there thinking the worst was over. HA!
I reported to the 4th floor X-ray at the Foothills Hospital for my HSG. The pamphlet had described the procedure as "simple" with "slight discomfort". My friend had also assured me that it was no biggie and I would be fine. They prescribed Naproxen for any discomfort.
We were called in four at a time. Remove the cloths from the waist down, put on this here gown. Leave your bra on, take your valuables, put on another gown backwards to prevent drafts and have a seat. Yep. Four of us, in a hall, sans pants. It was weird, knowing that there may have been a bare ass or two previously perched on the chair that I was currently occupying. We were called in one at a time (obviously) clutching our valuables, oblivious to what we were going to go through. The girls that went ahead of me went in without incident and came out on the other side, seemingly unscathed. My turn came.
I walked in and was directed to a steel table with an x-ray hanging overhead. An HSG is an x-ray of the uterus and surrounding structures. It allows the doctor to see whether the Fallopian tubes are open or not. They do this by injecting iodine into the uterus and watch for it to flow out through the tubes. Simple, right? Pfffft.
I assumed the position. Slid down. Slid down some more. And relaxed. Warning: The next bit is graphic.
After having the usual tools of the gynaecological trade inserted uneventfully, my cervix was shucked open. OK, this must be the discomfort they were talking about in the pamphlet. The pipette was inserted through my freshly shucked cervix. More intense discomfort. The iodine was then injected. I may have been a bit loud with my expletives. I immediately began Lamaze breathing (who needs a course?) and hoped my uterus wouldn't explode. I also thought if this was what contractions (never mind pushing the baby out) would feel like, then I would be tapping out rather quickly. The x-ray was taken.
"Oh look there," said the Spanish Inquisition style doctor.
I looked. The iodine was coming out one side. I was still breathing rather hard and swearing (under my breath now).
"If you want, I can inject more dye to open up that left side."
"NO!" I was ok with half off my fertility.
"Are you sure, I have quite a bit that I can inject to try to get that open." This guy was slowly morphing into a Nazi doctor at a death camp.
"No, no, I'm quite fine with this," I said, as I started moving to get off the table with everything still in. Leaving with his instruments seemed like a good plan. I could deal with them later.
He was quick to encourage me to relax as he removed everything. I sat up slowly since I started feeling nauseous and a bit faint. The nurse gave me a wash cloth for when gravity caught hold of any residual iodine. He mentioned that he would send his findings to my doctor and sent me on my way.
Moderately traumatized, I got dressed and left. I spent the rest of the day curled up in a ball with the cramping. The naproxen did nothing. If it did, I don't want to think of what kind of pain I would have had.
A few weeks later we went back to discuss the findings with the fertility doctor. Wade's results were normal. My blood tests were normal. My ovaries had some follicles. Then he came to the HSG results.
"I'd like to repeat the HSG," he said while turning the monitor so we could see it,
Fuck that, I thought to myself. I calmly explained the false advertising in the pamphlet and how much it had hurt.
Then he said, "you may have just had a little cramp."
A little cramp?
I wondered how he would feel with one of his nuts squished into his eye. "This may pinch a little," I would say.
"A repeat on the HSG would show us for sure if this Fallopian tube is blocked."
"Fine." He gave me the requisition and I booked it.
The second one didn't hurt even remotely as bad. Shortly before I was set to have it, I managed to injure my shoulder and rediscovered that I am allergic to the naproxen. So I took a Tylenol instead.
December 17, 2012 we went back and he confirmed that it was blocked, it was good information to have. He gave me a prescription for fertility drugs, which I eventually shredded.
At the same time that all of this fun had been going on, I had been taking my temperature and recording it an app called My Fertility Friend. I was curious to see if I was having all the signs of ovulation. I was.
Shortly after I was diagnosed with "unspecified infertility", two of my friends had babies. The day the second one was born, we conceived Adriana. It took a couple weeks to get a positive pregnancy test. The first one was negative. The second one was positive. I showed it to Wade and his response was "what am I looking at?" I explained and pointed and he said "I'll need three tests and they'll have to be peer reviewed." Typical scientist. A couple days later I give him 2 more tests. One was a bright pink plus sign, the other said Pregnant 1-2 weeks.
Then the fun began.
Wednesday, October 2, 2013
Hooray for Boobies!
In spite of the nurses strict instructions to AVOID LARGE CROWDS, we took the Ninja to the mall. We are a trio of rebels now. Considering her bubble isn't being breeched by people coming in for a greasy diseased kiss, I feel at ease going to the mall and continuing with my life.
On this, our first mall outing, it was inevitable that a feeding needed to take place. In public. For the first time since the 2004 Stanley Cup run, my boobs would have to see the very public light of day. We had made the grievous error of leaving our stroller at home. So we had her car seat in a shopping cart. Since I am one of those people who doesn't like taking up much space, I opted to take her into the unknown sans carrier equipment. Now I know better.
I left Wade in the food court and followed the signs to a room that I had only spied on my visits to the washroom. I had imagined that there was some sort of fight training going on or loud explosions, behind the mysterious closed door. The alternative would be a calm and serene environment. Perhaps with water treatments, a Zen rock garden and women in meditative states. Now the day was upon me. I had to walk through the door that had caused my already over active imagination to spiral out of control.
The Ninja and I took a deep breath. Then we pushed/booted the door open. The sight that met my eyes was so much worse than I had in my mind. It was like a sugar fuelled birthday party with boobs. There were children running amok. Mothers feeding younger siblings of the silly monkeys jumping on the comfortable looking chairs. I picked a chair next to a shopping cart on steroids. It had Thomas the Train playing on an LCD screen. When did shopping carts get TV? There was a fussy little girl whining to be let out of said cart. Or unleashed as I would soon discover.
After digesting that I was apparently transported to a Chuck E Cheese (sans ball pit), I set about the business of feeding the Ninja. I am apparently less about showing off the girls in this crowd than on a very rowdy 17th Avenue. With the skill that would confuse most men waiting for the hooter shot, I covered up and started feeding. Once I was settled in, I had another look at my surroundings.
The amount of activity in this room was not relaxing. At all. I like being laid back and undistracted when I am in this sort of feeding situation. Having under parented kids bouncing merrily on chairs that are meant for mothers who need a place to relax and get the feeding done is neither relaxing or low on the distraction scale. Their mothers, however, seemed pretty relaxed and uninterested in what their kids were up to while they were in their National Geographic-esc (think of the issue with the African ladies letting it all hang out) type of bubble with their immobile bundles of joy.
The Thomas the Train video continued to drone on next to me, having been abandoned by the whiny girl in favour of turning this room into her own personal jungle gym. Another lady appeared out of nowhere with a frozen bottle of milk. She broke all the rules of frozen milk I had read/been lectured about and popped it into the microwave. To each his own, I thought to myself. There are 2 change stations that were occupied and all of a sudden the room with so many empty chairs became standing room only.
Of course the Ninja would opt to fall asleep. So I was forced to button up and change her to wake her up. This elicited several looks and oohs and ahs at her tiny (yet deadly) size. Only one woman was bold enough to ask her age, while I was mid-change. I politely respond but carried on what I was doing. I don't like dealing with foot vs waste issues. I also didn't get into her life story about being 6 weeks premature.
I went back to feeding her and took a look at the TV mounted on the wall. For some reason, a poker tournament is the only thing on TV at that time of day. I may have rolled my eyes in dramatic fashion. It probably went unnoticed since the people in the room didn't seem capable of pulling their eyes away from the little miracles dangling from their breasts. Even if it involved keeping their older children under control.
After 40 minutes in the chaos and magic that is the mall breast feeding room, I staggered out to the food court in need of food and a martini. A really big martini. Sadly they are not on the menu right now. I settled for Jugo Juice and a car ride home. To my sanctuary, where the Thomas the Train invasion has not yet occurred.
If you read to this point and don't have kids yet, your welcome. Your reproductive organs are no longer functional.
On this, our first mall outing, it was inevitable that a feeding needed to take place. In public. For the first time since the 2004 Stanley Cup run, my boobs would have to see the very public light of day. We had made the grievous error of leaving our stroller at home. So we had her car seat in a shopping cart. Since I am one of those people who doesn't like taking up much space, I opted to take her into the unknown sans carrier equipment. Now I know better.
I left Wade in the food court and followed the signs to a room that I had only spied on my visits to the washroom. I had imagined that there was some sort of fight training going on or loud explosions, behind the mysterious closed door. The alternative would be a calm and serene environment. Perhaps with water treatments, a Zen rock garden and women in meditative states. Now the day was upon me. I had to walk through the door that had caused my already over active imagination to spiral out of control.
The Ninja and I took a deep breath. Then we pushed/booted the door open. The sight that met my eyes was so much worse than I had in my mind. It was like a sugar fuelled birthday party with boobs. There were children running amok. Mothers feeding younger siblings of the silly monkeys jumping on the comfortable looking chairs. I picked a chair next to a shopping cart on steroids. It had Thomas the Train playing on an LCD screen. When did shopping carts get TV? There was a fussy little girl whining to be let out of said cart. Or unleashed as I would soon discover.
After digesting that I was apparently transported to a Chuck E Cheese (sans ball pit), I set about the business of feeding the Ninja. I am apparently less about showing off the girls in this crowd than on a very rowdy 17th Avenue. With the skill that would confuse most men waiting for the hooter shot, I covered up and started feeding. Once I was settled in, I had another look at my surroundings.
The amount of activity in this room was not relaxing. At all. I like being laid back and undistracted when I am in this sort of feeding situation. Having under parented kids bouncing merrily on chairs that are meant for mothers who need a place to relax and get the feeding done is neither relaxing or low on the distraction scale. Their mothers, however, seemed pretty relaxed and uninterested in what their kids were up to while they were in their National Geographic-esc (think of the issue with the African ladies letting it all hang out) type of bubble with their immobile bundles of joy.
The Thomas the Train video continued to drone on next to me, having been abandoned by the whiny girl in favour of turning this room into her own personal jungle gym. Another lady appeared out of nowhere with a frozen bottle of milk. She broke all the rules of frozen milk I had read/been lectured about and popped it into the microwave. To each his own, I thought to myself. There are 2 change stations that were occupied and all of a sudden the room with so many empty chairs became standing room only.
Of course the Ninja would opt to fall asleep. So I was forced to button up and change her to wake her up. This elicited several looks and oohs and ahs at her tiny (yet deadly) size. Only one woman was bold enough to ask her age, while I was mid-change. I politely respond but carried on what I was doing. I don't like dealing with foot vs waste issues. I also didn't get into her life story about being 6 weeks premature.
I went back to feeding her and took a look at the TV mounted on the wall. For some reason, a poker tournament is the only thing on TV at that time of day. I may have rolled my eyes in dramatic fashion. It probably went unnoticed since the people in the room didn't seem capable of pulling their eyes away from the little miracles dangling from their breasts. Even if it involved keeping their older children under control.
After 40 minutes in the chaos and magic that is the mall breast feeding room, I staggered out to the food court in need of food and a martini. A really big martini. Sadly they are not on the menu right now. I settled for Jugo Juice and a car ride home. To my sanctuary, where the Thomas the Train invasion has not yet occurred.
If you read to this point and don't have kids yet, your welcome. Your reproductive organs are no longer functional.
Sunday, September 29, 2013
NICU - If It Hit The Floor, It's Dead To Me.
I will start off by explaining that there are three types of NICU experience:The good, the bad and the ugly. We had the good. I can't relate to the other two because we had a premature yet otherwise healthy baby. I am not going to try to imagine what it would be like to be one of those parents in one of the other two categories.
The Ninja started off in the main receiving area. She was stabilized and all of the tubes were added to assist with her breathing via a CPAP, IV hydration and feeding tube. She was measured and tested to check her blood glucose and blood chemistry. They also did a chest x-ray to check on the condition of her lungs. At the same time she was connected to the monitor which would measure and record her respirations, heart rate, blood pressure and oxygenation of the blood. This happened before my high as a kite carcass was rolled in. Wade was with her through most of this process. He came back to me in recovery after the nurse mentioned that maybe he should check on me. I was busy being enthralled by the random ability to move my feet again and the perceived size of my legs. Not to mention the baggy of placenta next to my bed. It was just out of poking range.
When I was finally rolled into the NICU, I noticed the paw prints on the ceiling. I thought this was a nice touch and that they must have a Spider Bear (the distant cousin to Spider Pig) tucked away somewhere. I was brought alongside her Isolette on the stretcher. The nurse offered me hand sanitizer and opened the access port. I reached in and put my enormous finger in the palm of her tiny hand. She gripped it hard, letting me know that she is as strong as her round house kicks. This was the first time I got a bit weepy. I blame the sudden shift in hormones. And happiness.
I was taken to my room after an all too brief visit. Both of us needed rest. I'll spare the details of my 48 hours in postpartum, but I will say that I was walking within 12 hours. I had all tubes and hoses out within 24 hours and was able to walk to the NICU and then discharged within 48 hours.
Going home was bitter sweet for me. On one hand I was still in a daze from how fast things moved and missed my little world on Antepartum. On the other, I was looking forward to the simple things. Seeing my dog, sleeping in my own bed and having home cooked food. Leaving the Ninja in the hospital was neither bitter nor sweet but a necessity for her eventual release.
This began the two week journey from level three care to our ill prepared house. Our routine was intense. We aimed to be at the hospital three times a day. Initially, I was still recovering from major surgery and lacked the energy to spend a lot of time. That gradually changed.
Every day held new hope that our little Ninja would be coming home sooner rather than later. When we asked about the CPAP duration on day two and the nurse told us nine days. The next day, it had been replaced with a nasal cannula. A day later her IV was removed. Then her oxygen was turned down to room air. By day four she was moved from bed 31 to bed 1. Still in the Isolette, but moving on up in the world.
On day eight, she was transferred to the Peter Lougheed NICU. This was a lower level NICU. As evidenced by the 20 second hand washing requirement instead of a full minute. The atmosphere is also much more laid back. The babies are less ill and on their way home. But best of all, no more Isolette.
Both sets of parents came in to visit at the Foothills. I have never seen my dad so happy. He was apprehensive at first and then when given the chance to touch her, he had the energy of a much younger man. (He was giddy even. If you have ever met my dad, go ahead and try to picture that.) She was under the UV lights for some proactive jaundice treatment which was probably a bit intimidating. Wade's mom works across the hall from the NICU at PLC and would visit on her breaks and after her shift ended for a cuddle or two. This was much appreciated since we weren't always there.
On the Ninja's final night in the hospital, I was asked to stay over and feed her on demand. She chose this night to feed every four hours. This gave me [false] hope that I was bringing home a baby who didn't need to eat a lot at night. Well played Ninja. Well played. I barely slept anticipating the phone calls to come to the unit to feed her. This was a lot like being on call early on in my EMS career. I was less sleeping than levitating,in anticipation of the call, above the bed. Only two calls came.
She achieved so much in the span of two weeks. She lost and regained four ounces. She went from navy blue at birth to yellow to pink. She had her breathing assisted for just over a week. We (she and I) learned the nuances of breast feeding. Wade and I learned how to bath her and changed countless diapers (although I missed out on the first ones). I learned the importance of hand washing and lost a lot of skin doing so. Then there were the challenges of milk production and the long list of things that I had never imagined coming out of my mouth.
The best day (after her birthday) was September 13. The day we walked out of the hospital and into our own little family.
Monday, September 16, 2013
A Ninja is Born - Part Two
Having been placed in the triage room, I had the opportunity to go awkwardly to the washroom with assistance. Not in my bed on a bedpan, thankfully. Once comfortable again, I relaxed into my new surroundings. The nurse looking after me half expected with my duration in Antepartum that I should be able to hook up the fetal monitor. I hadn't been so bold and she had to instruct me on how to do it. The ninja continued to thrive.
The first doctor to visit me was the surgeon who would be performing the c section. She put my chances of having a baby that day at 70%. She explained the risks of the c section and went off to do whatever it is surgeons do. Perhaps strut and drink coffee that has been passed through a weasel.
Wade arrived in the grand style of a man who had packed the entire house into 2 small bags. He was fairly calm considering the summons that I had put to him an hour earlier. He thought for sure that he would never make it to the birth of our little Ninja. But he did. The nurse provided him with a smashing outfit. A gown, hair cap and booties. He looked like an escaped mental patient moonlighting as a mime mover. He had achieved this look by strapping on the cap buret style.
I continued to be monitored and thoroughly entertained. Then something happened that I had not felt for several months; a cramp. It was so crampy that a mountain peak showed on the fetal monitor. Then another. The surgeon returned and informed me that I had moved from 70% to 100% and preparations would start right away.
The anesthesiologist resident was the next doctor type to visit me. She came equipped to ask all the right questions and to determine that she was not familiar with the IV catheters in L&D. I should add that I already had an IV running in my right arm. This fresh young face of tomorrow's medicine was looking to start one in my left wrist. One that would carry blood products if the need should arise. One that is of a gauge, which requires freezing before it is delicately poked through my skin and gently glided into my vein. She did a bang up job with the freezing. Lidocaine was our mutual friend. Then she awkwardly attempted to start the IV with the unfamiliar equipment. She missed. She removed it and applied a lot of pressure, which resulted in an epic bruise. She taped the gauze she had been attempting to press into my radius. All the while talking about the catheters she is familiar with.
The anesthesiologist came in and explained the procedure of a spinal. He was cut a bit short by the news that I have relapsing remitting MS with spinal cord involvement. He changed directions from a spinal to either an epidural or general anesthetic. He would confer with his colleagues. I suggested contacting my neurologist who happened to be in the building. He politely declined. Then noticed the lack of IV in my left arm and the sheepish look on the resident's face. He strode over and took control of the situation. Right into the back of my right hand. First he froze the location and without waiting, slammed the IV expertly into position. I protested loudly by explaining that freezing without actually freezing is false advertising. There was laughter (at my expense) and he went out to confer with his colleagues.
The surgeon returned with the waiver about the surgery. It stated that she had done her job and please don't sue me if anything bad happens. Then the anesthesiologist was back. He said that he would go ahead with an epidural since spinals were known to aggravate MS symptoms. He won me over with that decision. My surgical nurse came in and introduced herself and assisted me across the hall, into the first OR I had set foot in since my hospital practicum 11 years ago. Wade was left in a tiny alcove in the hallway until they were ready for him to join the fun.
The first thing they did after hooking me back up to the fetal monitor (the ninja was still in there, happy as a clam. A deadly ninja clam) was to get me started on the epidural since it would take 20 minutes to take effect. He actually froze my back (I asked "for reals this time?" And he replied by injecting a lot of freezing). He inserted the catheter and started to run drugs in. They laid me down and inserted the other kind catheter. You know, the one you wished you had at a good movie, after the extra large soft drink. Then they started to paint my belly.
Wade was brought in around this time. He looked like a medical tourist. What with his gown and DSLR camera. I showed him the setting on the camera to capture the moment without having to do anything more than point and shoot. The nurse asked if I wanted a private room in postpartum. I said yes, but what I really meant was HELL YES!
The anesthesiologist kept touching me with a bag of ice. Once I confirmed that I was frozen they commenced with Operation Ninja Extraction. It was the weirdest sensation I have had. I could feel vibrations as they cut me. Then they said they were at the uterus. When they cut into the uterus, they discovered that the Ninja was breech. So they stopped and contemplated how to best extract her. Once they had a plan, they commenced. This caused me to make faces that Wade found odd. I had a great pressure on my chest and then she was out. Wade was invited over to where the Ninja was being worked on. She was navy blue and after a bunch of suctioning let out her first cries.
They let Wade come and show me pictures of the little lady who caused so much commotion. Then they were all gone. She was taken to the NICU and Wade went with her. I was stitched and stapled back together and my surgeon was kind enough to show me pictures of the placenta and membranes. As I had seen so many times on ultrasound, there were the vein and artery that caused my stay in Antepartum.
Wade returned with more pictures. I was in recovery for a few hours while I waited for my private room. The freezing slowly came out of my legs. I was fascinated by how similar to an elephant leg my legs felt. Almost as if someone had secretly switched my normal legs out for elephant ones. Then, ever so slowly, I could move them. I felt like Uma Therman in Kill Bill Volume 1. Without the yellow Pussy Wagon.
Once I was done in recovery, they wheeled my stretcher into the NICU and I touched my little Ninja for the first time, on the outside.
Friday, September 6, 2013
A Ninja is Born - Part One
August 30, 0730. After exactly a week of having a roommate who had a tendency to sleep with her TV on, I managed to procure earplugs. The addition of this wonderful foam invention plus my "Closed For Business" blue satin bitch (eye) mask, lead to a coma-like state. So much so that I didn't get up for my regular 0300 trod to the bathroom. In addition to being the best sleep for some time, today was the much anticipated return of my regular OB. I woke up when he tapped me on the arm. We talked for a grand total of a minute. He said he was happy to see that i was still there and we'll continue status quo, with the goal of hitting 36 weeks. No dates were scheduled for the c section. He left and my roommate made a B line for the bathroom. I realized while the doctor was chatting with me, just how bad I needed to use the washroom. Now I had to wait a little longer. I shifted uncomfortably in my bed and felt something that no one ever wants to experience when they are sitting in Antepartum. Especially with all the talk of how bad my condition could potentially be.
I felt a gush. At first I thought I had pissed myself. I may have used an expletive, that I am known to blurt on occasion, at the thought. A second thought occurred to me: I had to make sure I wasn't doing the one thing that they continuously and consistently asked about every time they came in to see me: Any bleeding? So I reached down to check. I drew a deep breath and looked at my hand. There was blood. A lot of blood. I pressed the nurse button. The disembodied voice asked if she could help me. "I'm bleeding," I said. "Say that again," she replied. Moderately miffed that I should have to repeat what I said, I answered "I AM BLEEDING".
All of a sudden there was a flurry of activity. I heard footsteps, but they weren't walking with purpose. They were running. Three nurses appeared in my room. One hooked me up to the fetal monitor. Another one broke a world record for spiking an IV bag and starting a line and then helping me change clothes. The third was the runner for things like a gown and other accoutrement to deal with the growing, yet emergent, mess that was being made in my bed. The fetal monitor showed that the Ninja's heart rate was normal. There was no sign of distress. I sent a text to Wade stating that I was bleeding. He asked from where. I smacked my forehead. I told him to get his ass over there. He finished walking Ringo and started heading in my direction. All of this happened in less than 5 minutes.
A wheel chair materialized and I was on the move. I was whisked (this is a speed somewhere between a walk with purpose and a moderate jog) to the special elevator. We were headed for Labour and Delivery. The first 2 nurses I saw up there were, one of my favourites and the one who I blogged about earlier. They were milling about at the nurses station since all of this action was going down right at shift change. Neither of them ended up being my nurse. I was put into L&D Triage. I was super excited because I was finally in a private room.
To be continued...
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