Painful Roller Coaster

Time blurs when you’re in the hospital — especially when you give birth at 12:49 in the morning and then go to sleep. When I woke up I thought it was Monday already, instead of Sunday, so my whole timeline is totally jacked, for which I apologize.

My parents didn’t know we were in the ICN when they got to the hospital — they had to call the Hubbs to clue them in. He went out into the waiting room to let them know what was going on while I stayed with the Monkey, holding his little hand. Since only two visitors are allowed at once, my dad came in next while the Hubbs stayed outside with my mom. We talked for maybe 20 minutes, but my dad was too intimidated to hold the Monkey if he wasn’t sitting. My mom came in for less than 10 minutes. She hardly looked at me the entire time. Her eyes got misty at one point, then she gave me a big hug, told me I was doing a good job, and practically ran out.

I think they both knew I was just barely holding it together and didn’t want to be the ones to unleash the crazy/hysteria I was harboring. Also, I can’t imagine its easy to see your grandbaby there.

After 24 hours under the hood, the Monkey was starting to breathe better. He was still noisy and congested, but it LOOKED easier. His little chest wasn’t straining so hard to get the air in. He was figuring out that he could breathe through is mouth and not just his nose — a big deal for a newborn. The doctor was very optimistic. One more day on the medicine under the hood and the Monkey would likely be able to go home with us on Wednesday. Coincidentally, the same day I was to be discharged.

We would be able to go home as a family and put this whole ICN behind us as a minor blip.

On another positive note, my milk had “come in”. As in, holy torpedoes, Batman, my milk had COME IN. Someone call the dairy. I actually thought the girls might pop. I went from girl next door to porn star within hours. The ICN nurses brought me ice bags for them. If Jim Carrey were there, he would want to bounce them like Sugar Ray Leonard.

To his credit, the Monkey has ALWAYS been able to latch and has a great appetite, all good signs, all encouraging.

Going Backward

Now that my milk had come in, I was trying to nurse the Monkey on his schedule. This meant waking up at 4:30 a.m. Tuesday for his morning feed. At 2 a.m., the phone in my hospital room rang. It was the overnight pediatrician.

They monkey had not peed all night, and she wanted to know if he had peed earlier. Because she examined him down there and COULDN’T FIND a hole. She mentioned the words “air lifting” to the nearest Children’s Hospital and “emergency surgery.”

Cue the waterworks.

So as I’m breaking down into a blubbery mess, the Hubbs reacted with anger. And he totally pulled a “With all due respect” out of his ear and asks the doctor why it wasn’t noticed before. Because that’s a kind of important thing, a kid not having a hole to pee out of. The doctor says she’s going to examine him again, and hangs up.

And poor Hubbs, he’s trying to calm me down and comfort me and dealing with my “ohmygawd what did I do wrong in the past 9 months to cause this to happen”and JUST gets me calmed down when the phone rings again. Its the doctor. And guess what? OOPS. She found the hole. A wee bit of skin had grown over it and she just flicked it with a needle and guess what? Little guy peed up a storm. ALL OVER HER.

Crisis averted, no airlifting or emergency surgery needed. Sorry to bother you folks. And now the Hubbs has to deal with my crying again. This time, in relief.

On Wednesday morning, the Monkey is breathing much better. So much better that the doctor is going to take him off the hood and if he’s still doing good at noon, we can go home. As a family. And be done with this hospital. We stay until 10:30 for his mid-morning feed then retreat to my hospital room for my now-ice cold breakfast and to pack our bags. We’re back before 11:30, and the Monkey is back under the hood.

His breathing is severely labored. His lips are slightly blue, and he has three doctors surrounding his little bassinet.

He didn’t go home that day.
He wasn’t discharged.
I was.

The nurses in postpartum were super sweet and let me stay in the room until 10 p.m. Which meant, my stuff stayed in the room while we were in the ICN. The Hubbs went to the car and brought it to the front of the hospital and schlepped all our bags downstairs and into the car. I sat in the wheelchair and let them escort me to the doors, heart breaking that there wasn’t a baby in my lap.

The Hubbs helped me get buckled, and got into the driver’s seat and sighed. It was a loud, wooshing sound. We didn’t talk. The car was so quiet. I kept *almost* turning my head to the backseat, with its empty baby carrier.

“Don’t look,” he mumbled. I nodded, and kept my eyes forward for about two stoplights. Then I looked back and burst into tears.

I cried all the way home.

This entry was posted in ICN.

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