I feel a number of things about nursing and my journey with it. I've been wondering what caused my issues. When it came to the delayed milk, was it the lengthy exhausting induction? The C section? My uterine infection? The separation from Jack while I was in the hospital? Did my hives signal a bad reaction to breastfeeding?
I think I may have actually been doomed from the start. When I was pregnant, my breasts barely changed. Oh, at first they got tender, but my large A cup only went up to a mid-sized B. This is a minor increase. And what I've been discovering, from extensive reading, this can signal a forthcoming production problem. I never became engorged. When my milk arrived, it only trickled in. I thought it was the result of health issues. But the lack of breast changes may actually have been the issue all along. I can't know for sure, but it's another consideration, and one that gives me strange comfort.
My body just plain screwed me, is all. And it's not the first time. I had four ear infections in my first year of life, then tonsillitis. Double pneumonia in childhood, followed my two bouts of kidney stones in my teens. In my early 20s I was treated to appendicitis and I developed IBS. My body simply does not give a shit, so I sort of wasn't shocked my body wouldn't go into labour. I mean, I was, but I can believe it. I had a nagging feeling it wouldn't happen around 42 weeks.
But I never doubted my ability to breastfeed. Pfft. Stupid me. Lactivists will tell you low supply is rare, that any woman can do it.
But I call shenanigans. My eyes don't need glasses, my pancreas produces all the insulin I need, my blood clots and my kidneys don't require dialysis. However, these bodily woes exist because the human body is not infallible. Why then believe the breast is perfect? Oh, when it works, it is. The perfect baby food.
But here's the thing: nature gives zero fucks about you. It is indiscriminate, it does not care. It will weed out the population at random, with no rhyme or reason, no matter how decent a person someone is, how much they're needed or loved, or how hard they try.
I was born in 1982 with access to modern medicine, born of a C section, myself. My body has nearly died a couple times now, but thanks to modern medicine I was treated unceremoniously and easily.
I can't feed my baby. Thank God he was born in 2013, where he could be born safely and be fed something nutritious when his mother's milk didn't come. And as for me, and all my health issues I've had? Actually, I was breastfed. You can't breastfeed a baby to a life of good health. Like so much else, it's luck of the draw.
I'm enjoying my maternity leave a lot more now, and I'm really starting to bond with my son. I hadn't realized just how much of a barrier that pump put between us. I was prioritizing bottled breast milk over our relationship.
Jack's started to grab things and he's giggling. He's sitting up with assistance and he's able to entertain himself for a little while at a time. My son is so amazing. He's very bright and a great little baby. I'm so lucky to have him.
Showing posts with label birth. Show all posts
Showing posts with label birth. Show all posts
Thursday, July 4, 2013
Monday, April 8, 2013
The Birth pt 2
Okay, the pitocin. I was able to put it off for a stint, but I had been kept awake for 24 hours and lost my resistance. Pitocin, without a doubt, is a terrible experience. And I didn't have the stamina needed to sustain it. After three hours of fast-paced, hard irregular contractions that raked my body with pain, I caved and got an epidural. Meanwhile, they cranked the pitocin all night and by morning I was suffering in an immobilized state. They inserted a catheter into me because I could no longer get up to pee and I still was able to feel it going in.
When the nurses changed shifts, my fetal monitor had slipped. The nurse freaked out at the new erratic numbers and started rolling me around and the OB came in and wanted to attach a monitor to baby's head, up my cervix, which was only 5 cm after all that. At this point I said simply and loudly, "No. Just get him OUT. I want a cesarian."
And that's what happened. It was quick, I was scared, the Dude was left behind with no instructions and I was wheeled out of the delivery room and to the OR. I had to lay in a crucified Jesus pose while I was hooked up to things, given more anaesthesia and prepped for surgery. My midwife came and sat with me, offering comfort and eventually the Dude was given a place beside me.
There was pressure. I held the Dude's gaze the entire time, and it was the only thing keeping me calm. I love that man, I really do. He had no interest in watching the procedure. He was there for me. The curtain draped over my face quite a bit, my torso being so short, and it was yet another minor indignity.
We heard, "It's a boy! And he's peeing!" John was proclaimed a healthy baby, 9 pounds 13, and scored a 9 out of 10 on his Apgar. All the concern over him was unwarranted. The placenta looked in good shape, I'd had a lot of fluid and the cord was great. I cried when I heard him cry. The Dude was crying and we had a son.
He doesn't look a thing like a newborn. He instead looked about 2 weeks old or more. His neck was strong and he could already hold it up some. He latched to my breast within 40 minutes of the birth. Slightly overcooked, but seemingly healthier and stronger for it. My body sustained him well, but never seemed to be able to transition out of the pregnancy.
The recovery was a little rough. We paid a little extra and got a private room since we'd be there awhile. Unfortunately, the sleep deprivation was constant. I was woken up frequently by staff to give me meds, take my vitals or talk to me about various things. And this was on top of Jack (Which is my preferred nickname for my son) waking up and needing us. Rather than go into a lengthy sleep, he began a cluster feed immediately and I was nursing all the time while the Dude changed diapers.
Eventually I developed hives. They spread all over my body and itched horribly. I was given Benadryl, which worked, but they still came back. I was exhausted. I found nursing challenging with my incision and the pain meds were only enough to take the edge off, not eliminate it. I needed help up for everything. I could barely walk. The Dude was in and out a lot running necessary errands and fielding phone calls and texts, getting me drinks, and getting himself food since they would only feed me.
I was discharged after two days, hives in full effect, pain constant and feeling highly depressed about my chances of taking care of a baby. The Dude talked to my aunt and she came a little early to be with me. My father-in-law, now in town, took us home and I was helped into bed. My hives spread to my face and my lips looked like bees had stung them.
My aunt arrived and after more Benadryl my hives subsided. It was a battle for another day or two to keep them away. I developed more nursing issues after that. My milk didn't come in. I was only getting colostrum and Jack was going hungry. After losing 12% of his body weight, he was put on formula and I had to start pumping to generate more milk.
But this proved difficult. I was still exhausted and needed to nap, eat, tend to my body and the manual pump I had was not very efficient. The Dude went out and bought an expensive electric one. It works great, but I only got to use it once.
Last night I developed a fever of 38.6 C (Almost 102 F). It started with uncontrollable shakes and chills. After a couple hours I was heating up. My midwife said to go to the emergency room, and my father-in-law came over and drove us to the ER while my aunt stayed with the baby.
We were there till 4:00 a.m. The woman beside me, separated by only a curtain, was not given much chance to last the night and her family surrounded her as a priest gave her Last Rites.
They took blood and urine and I was sent home with an appointment for an ultrasound for 1:00 pm, which my father-in-law also drove us to. I wrote part one of the story before this appointment. The ultrasound was 45 minutes behind schedule and it was both an abdominal and a trans vaginal. I was uncomfortable.
After going through the ER again I was informed I had Endometritis, an infection of the uterus. I'm now alone in a hospital room away from my family for up to two days. I've cried a lot today. I'm tired. I'm low. I'm afraid of losing my milk. It'll be hard to pump in this room. It's from 1930, the whole ward is outdated and sorta scary and what few plugs there are are inconveniently located. The Dude fought the staff to get me a private room, and that is sustaining me right now.
That and the knowledge that it's either this line of treatment or I pretty much suffer indefinitely. Jack is in good hands, the Dude is home and finally getting some needed sleep and I guess now is the time to rest, myself.
So now I sleep. Tomorrow brings antibiotics, hospital food, pumping efforts, and complicated trips to the bathroom.
When the nurses changed shifts, my fetal monitor had slipped. The nurse freaked out at the new erratic numbers and started rolling me around and the OB came in and wanted to attach a monitor to baby's head, up my cervix, which was only 5 cm after all that. At this point I said simply and loudly, "No. Just get him OUT. I want a cesarian."
And that's what happened. It was quick, I was scared, the Dude was left behind with no instructions and I was wheeled out of the delivery room and to the OR. I had to lay in a crucified Jesus pose while I was hooked up to things, given more anaesthesia and prepped for surgery. My midwife came and sat with me, offering comfort and eventually the Dude was given a place beside me.
There was pressure. I held the Dude's gaze the entire time, and it was the only thing keeping me calm. I love that man, I really do. He had no interest in watching the procedure. He was there for me. The curtain draped over my face quite a bit, my torso being so short, and it was yet another minor indignity.
We heard, "It's a boy! And he's peeing!" John was proclaimed a healthy baby, 9 pounds 13, and scored a 9 out of 10 on his Apgar. All the concern over him was unwarranted. The placenta looked in good shape, I'd had a lot of fluid and the cord was great. I cried when I heard him cry. The Dude was crying and we had a son.
He doesn't look a thing like a newborn. He instead looked about 2 weeks old or more. His neck was strong and he could already hold it up some. He latched to my breast within 40 minutes of the birth. Slightly overcooked, but seemingly healthier and stronger for it. My body sustained him well, but never seemed to be able to transition out of the pregnancy.
The recovery was a little rough. We paid a little extra and got a private room since we'd be there awhile. Unfortunately, the sleep deprivation was constant. I was woken up frequently by staff to give me meds, take my vitals or talk to me about various things. And this was on top of Jack (Which is my preferred nickname for my son) waking up and needing us. Rather than go into a lengthy sleep, he began a cluster feed immediately and I was nursing all the time while the Dude changed diapers.
Eventually I developed hives. They spread all over my body and itched horribly. I was given Benadryl, which worked, but they still came back. I was exhausted. I found nursing challenging with my incision and the pain meds were only enough to take the edge off, not eliminate it. I needed help up for everything. I could barely walk. The Dude was in and out a lot running necessary errands and fielding phone calls and texts, getting me drinks, and getting himself food since they would only feed me.
I was discharged after two days, hives in full effect, pain constant and feeling highly depressed about my chances of taking care of a baby. The Dude talked to my aunt and she came a little early to be with me. My father-in-law, now in town, took us home and I was helped into bed. My hives spread to my face and my lips looked like bees had stung them.
My aunt arrived and after more Benadryl my hives subsided. It was a battle for another day or two to keep them away. I developed more nursing issues after that. My milk didn't come in. I was only getting colostrum and Jack was going hungry. After losing 12% of his body weight, he was put on formula and I had to start pumping to generate more milk.
But this proved difficult. I was still exhausted and needed to nap, eat, tend to my body and the manual pump I had was not very efficient. The Dude went out and bought an expensive electric one. It works great, but I only got to use it once.
Last night I developed a fever of 38.6 C (Almost 102 F). It started with uncontrollable shakes and chills. After a couple hours I was heating up. My midwife said to go to the emergency room, and my father-in-law came over and drove us to the ER while my aunt stayed with the baby.
We were there till 4:00 a.m. The woman beside me, separated by only a curtain, was not given much chance to last the night and her family surrounded her as a priest gave her Last Rites.
They took blood and urine and I was sent home with an appointment for an ultrasound for 1:00 pm, which my father-in-law also drove us to. I wrote part one of the story before this appointment. The ultrasound was 45 minutes behind schedule and it was both an abdominal and a trans vaginal. I was uncomfortable.
After going through the ER again I was informed I had Endometritis, an infection of the uterus. I'm now alone in a hospital room away from my family for up to two days. I've cried a lot today. I'm tired. I'm low. I'm afraid of losing my milk. It'll be hard to pump in this room. It's from 1930, the whole ward is outdated and sorta scary and what few plugs there are are inconveniently located. The Dude fought the staff to get me a private room, and that is sustaining me right now.
That and the knowledge that it's either this line of treatment or I pretty much suffer indefinitely. Jack is in good hands, the Dude is home and finally getting some needed sleep and I guess now is the time to rest, myself.
So now I sleep. Tomorrow brings antibiotics, hospital food, pumping efforts, and complicated trips to the bathroom.
The Birth pt 1
I'm a mother. And it came about in spectacularly terrible fashion on April 3. I have a son, his name is John (Though I want to nickname him Jack and the Dude is only calling him John. We'll see who wins), and he is, if I may say so, stupid cute. He doesn't look at all like a newborn, probably because he cooked for 43 weeks.
We went in on April Fools Day and I didn't get my C section. The OB on that day felt it was important to give labour a chance. He sold me a bill of goods about this Cervidil induction, how it's gentler because it takes 12 hours to fully take effect and it ripens your cervix. FYI, I'm going to get graphic from here on out. If this ain't your bag, I'd suggest stop reading now. I'll understand.
My midwife inserted it for me. This was painful. Generally speaking I don't enjoy hands putting foreign unwanted objects into my private crevices. I'm especially protective of my holiest of holies. However, this was the first of many such experiences and I was lucky my midwife was there to do this for me because I know and trust her, whereas I didn't know the OB from Bob.
Cervidil is not gentle, at least not to me. I could feel it chafing my vagina. My cervix, which was clamped shut, began to burn. I could barely walk. 12 hours of a burning nether region is a long time. Couple this with being hooked up to a fetal monitor around your belly and a nurse coming in every 30 minutes to check your vitals. This went on till 4:00 a.m. and meant no sleep for me.
I was able to remove the Cervidil tag (Yes, it's a long tag-like thing. Bizarre.) even though my midwife was called to come back and do it herself. Silliness. There was a slight amount of relief there, but then the resident insisted she check my cervix. My burning, long suffering cervix, which didn't deserve such torture, was not having it. I wanted a cooling off period for it to not feel like it was dying. So I said no. I said no again when she asked me 15 minutes later. And then the Dude said no. That actually got her to stop harassing me.
8:00 a.m. the new OB arrived and she wanted to check for dilation. I'd had bloody show, finally (Don't Google this if you don't know what it is and are squeamish about intimate female matters) and was hopeful that something had happened to make the Cervidil worth it. As the burning had stopped, I let her, and after 12 hours of suffering, the gain was 0 cm. I don't know that "disappointment" is the appropriate word, because I was feeling an otherworldly version of that.
She wanted to insert a foley catheter. It's a balloon-like object that goes in, yes, the damn cervix. It expands it manually and hopefully painlessly and is not supposed to harm the mother or baby at all. That's all well and good, but I couldn't bear the thought of having something pry open Fort Knox (By this time I had casually named my cervix since it had become such a big part of my life and yet had motivations and goals seemingly opposite to my own).
So they gave me morphine. I was accepting of this. Yes, I was pregnant, yes the effect on the baby, but seriously? At this point, he was cooked, he was healthy and he was coming out and I'm no martyr. They said it would wear off by the time he was born and I went with it.
The morphine was something of a mental vacation from what was happening to me. The insertion didn't feel good, but I kind of didn't care. I stayed in bed hooked up to this monitor and zoned out for a few hours.
The catheter was a success. I got to 4 cm and the OB broke my waters. Now that was weird. It's like peeing yourself except with no pressure, cramping or anything. And it keeps leaking and leaking. At this point I thought I was supposed to be able to walk around and get labour moving. But instead I was re-hooked up to the monitor and kept in bed for an hour. I was let off for 15 minutes to get moving around and when labour didn't start in that time frame, it was declared a failure and that I needed pitocin.
At this point I'm going to have to leave part 2 until later. I need a nap something fierce and there's a ridiculous amount of crazy shit left to tell.
We went in on April Fools Day and I didn't get my C section. The OB on that day felt it was important to give labour a chance. He sold me a bill of goods about this Cervidil induction, how it's gentler because it takes 12 hours to fully take effect and it ripens your cervix. FYI, I'm going to get graphic from here on out. If this ain't your bag, I'd suggest stop reading now. I'll understand.
My midwife inserted it for me. This was painful. Generally speaking I don't enjoy hands putting foreign unwanted objects into my private crevices. I'm especially protective of my holiest of holies. However, this was the first of many such experiences and I was lucky my midwife was there to do this for me because I know and trust her, whereas I didn't know the OB from Bob.
Cervidil is not gentle, at least not to me. I could feel it chafing my vagina. My cervix, which was clamped shut, began to burn. I could barely walk. 12 hours of a burning nether region is a long time. Couple this with being hooked up to a fetal monitor around your belly and a nurse coming in every 30 minutes to check your vitals. This went on till 4:00 a.m. and meant no sleep for me.
I was able to remove the Cervidil tag (Yes, it's a long tag-like thing. Bizarre.) even though my midwife was called to come back and do it herself. Silliness. There was a slight amount of relief there, but then the resident insisted she check my cervix. My burning, long suffering cervix, which didn't deserve such torture, was not having it. I wanted a cooling off period for it to not feel like it was dying. So I said no. I said no again when she asked me 15 minutes later. And then the Dude said no. That actually got her to stop harassing me.
8:00 a.m. the new OB arrived and she wanted to check for dilation. I'd had bloody show, finally (Don't Google this if you don't know what it is and are squeamish about intimate female matters) and was hopeful that something had happened to make the Cervidil worth it. As the burning had stopped, I let her, and after 12 hours of suffering, the gain was 0 cm. I don't know that "disappointment" is the appropriate word, because I was feeling an otherworldly version of that.
She wanted to insert a foley catheter. It's a balloon-like object that goes in, yes, the damn cervix. It expands it manually and hopefully painlessly and is not supposed to harm the mother or baby at all. That's all well and good, but I couldn't bear the thought of having something pry open Fort Knox (By this time I had casually named my cervix since it had become such a big part of my life and yet had motivations and goals seemingly opposite to my own).
So they gave me morphine. I was accepting of this. Yes, I was pregnant, yes the effect on the baby, but seriously? At this point, he was cooked, he was healthy and he was coming out and I'm no martyr. They said it would wear off by the time he was born and I went with it.
The morphine was something of a mental vacation from what was happening to me. The insertion didn't feel good, but I kind of didn't care. I stayed in bed hooked up to this monitor and zoned out for a few hours.
The catheter was a success. I got to 4 cm and the OB broke my waters. Now that was weird. It's like peeing yourself except with no pressure, cramping or anything. And it keeps leaking and leaking. At this point I thought I was supposed to be able to walk around and get labour moving. But instead I was re-hooked up to the monitor and kept in bed for an hour. I was let off for 15 minutes to get moving around and when labour didn't start in that time frame, it was declared a failure and that I needed pitocin.
At this point I'm going to have to leave part 2 until later. I need a nap something fierce and there's a ridiculous amount of crazy shit left to tell.
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