I’ve been thinking a lot about the moments right after River was born. Every other day this month, I have a flash back to our time in the NICU and how truly traumatic it all was. Thank goodness, these people were there for us. Reminding us that we are strong and so is our new little boy.
It got me thinking about the healing process and how insanely wise our bodies are. There wasn’t time to process the turn of events. I was a mom, now. I had to put on a brave face and keep this little guy alive. There was a lot to learn and do. So the emotions would just have to wait as best they could. Now, this doesn’t mean I was cool, calm and collected. I had my moments of uncontrollable tears and trembling fear; however, I’m realizing now just how much my body absorbed and stored so that I could get through what I needed to. The feelings would be there to process later.
We are two years into parenthood and I still find myself, more often than not, reliving the first moments of becoming a mother.
Let me set the scene.
I had just birthed my first baby. Naturally. It was approximately 12 hours from when I began having major contractions to the moment he took his first breath. Let me say that again. Twelve hours in this unknown place, where you are just along for a wild, dark ride and just trying to keep breathing. It’s uncomfortable and otherworldly, like a bad trip with lots of pain.
Once River was born, all was well in the world. I was sinking into the bed in the most euphoric state of bliss. Feeling the most powerful I have ever felt. The pillows and blankets swallowing me as River laid on my chest holding my finger. The smell of birth billowed through the room. He wasn’t bloody like I thought he would be. Instead, he was clean and sweet smelling. I kissed all over his head. Josh was right beside me basking in the sight of his son.
Fast Breathing
The midwives came in periodically to check his breathing. It was a little choppy, but “nothing to be alarmed about,” they reassured us. “We are going to send you to the hospital just so we can double check everything out with an expert.”
When our midwives explained that an ambulance would come to get us because it was protocol everything seemed so fine and normal. They did an excellent job at keeping us calm. I didn’t like the idea of riding in the ambulance without Josh, but it was only a 3 minute drive. For some reason, I pictured us arriving at the hospital and the respiratory doctor meeting us in the parking lot to have a quick listen and give us the ok to go home. That’s the picture our midwives were painting. Looking back, I know it was for the best, but just imagine the shock it created when that’s not what happened . . . at all.
As if the whole 24 hours leading up to being wheeled away in an ambulance wasn’t traumatic enough. . . we were now entering another event that would stretch us and eventually break us into a million tiny pieces.
River and I get wheeled into the Emergency room on a gurney and are instantly met with a whole slew of people- it felt like what happens on T.V.- doctors and nurses briskly walking and talking to each other while you are left completely in the dark as they speak in code. They take my baby out of my arms and put him a plastic tub. The tears well up inside me, but I know I have to be strong. I have to pay attention and be present. They help me into in a wheel chair and Josh re-joins me as we make our way up the elevator. River goes in another direction. (why, I’m not completely certain)
We find ourselves completely unraveling. Things were getting serious fast and we were left wondering so much- too much. This was not supposed to happen.
The Diagnosis
Standing in an open room with other sick babies and doctors and nurses- they give us the news- River had phnemonia (they think) and would have to stay overnight to be treated.
I’m tempted to say that a wave of emotions flooded over us, but that doesn’t quite articulate the feelings we were having. Hold tight. I’ll figure out something else.
As if the thought of our freshly birthed baby, sleeping in a hospital on his first night outside of the womb, wasn’t enough to knock us off our feet . . . we proceeded to hear the words:
“you can’t stay here. we are out of rooms and since you didn’t birth here. . .we don’t have a room for you”
Wait, wait wait. HOLD UP. What did you just say?
I swear I thought you said that I would have to leave my baby here and go someplace else? As in, exit the building or wait in an anxiety and fear ridden waiting room??
Josh and I look at each other with enough disappear that it would send even the most joful person into instant depression. We cry. NO. We wail. We sob. Snot dripping everywhere. Completely disheveled and delirious. In the middle of a swarm of polished medial professional. Me, with birth juices and body fluid still caked to my back side and lower half.
We were just coming off the most intense, dramatic and TRAUMATIC night of our lives.
Hope springs forth when a nurse announces that a transitional room was becoming available. We could stay in the room but River would have to stay in the ward for at least one night. “Fine,” I thought. This is happening and I’m not leaving him.
My parents were already on the way home to Tennessee but came back the second they heard the news. It was nice having them with me for the short time, but they had to leave once visitation ended.
The First Night
That first night. Oh my gosh, that first night. I get knots in my stomach just thinking about it. I was all alone with River. Well, kind of. We were in a giant ward with about ten other babies, separated by a thick curtain. I could hear everything- from the beeping machines to the little newborn wails and the nurse’s feet shuffling back and forth. It was freezing, as all hospitals seem to be. It smelled sterile, yet sickly at the same time. Like someone just threw up in a new car. Everything seemed unnatural- from the cords that River was attached to and the humming machines and the fact that I wasn’t laying next him with our skin touching. There were no other moms around.
I was so unsure of my motherly skills, but I tried my best to trust my intuition. I found myself bouncing him through out the night swaying back in forth in the 4 foot space we had. I was so nervous about holding him the right way and I didn’t want to mess up his cords, especially his IV. I was so tired. Goodness, was I tired. The only thing keeping me awake during the night feedings was the adrenaline. Which by the way, did I mention that breastfeeding is not easy and I was forced to figure it out during this unexpected nightmare.
I don’t remember praying, which is weird for me. And I think it was because I was completely swept away by the whole thing. I was mentally floating someplace else for a while. I guess it was my body’s way of keeping me spiraling emotionally.
I think one of the night nurses noticed the hollowness in my face and most likely picked up on the fact that I had no idea what I was doing. She checked-in on me many times. She would politely try to teach me a better way to calm river without me getting all “hey, I got this. Don’t tell me how to hold my baby” on her. Anyway, she made me this care package of all sorts of things I needed that I didn’t know I needed. Like Tucks pads and cheap chocolate. She reminded me that I had just went through a major thing- giving birth and all. I needed to make sure I was taking care of myself – ya know, down there.
Josh was sleeping in the room with all of stuff for the week. I wished he were right beside me.
It was the longest night of my life.
More hard lessons.
We moved to our room the next afternoon and spent the next six nights there. Josh and I sleeping together on a plastic couch that was smaller than a twin bed. Although, it didn’t really matter what size the bed was because we could barely sleep anyway. I was up every hour to nurse, pump and document River’s diapers and food intake. The nurses would interrupt us every few hours to give River his medicine and check his vitals.
The night that River had to get a new IV in because the one in his arm fell out was the worst. I was still getting used to hearing my child cry. The sound of his little voice alerting me that something was wrong – that he needed me was foreign and at the same time so intimate.
The nurses tried time and time again to get the IV replaced in his arms but his veins kept busting. So they tried his hand and then they tried his foot. I was clenching my whole body throughout the whole process, trying my best to absorb any pain he was feeling. They both looked at each other with a sort of look their eyes where I knew they were about to give me bad news.
“We are going to try a vein in his head. It looks really scary, but it’s actually not that bad.” They assured me that it was easier than trying to find a vein anywhere else. But I couldn’t help but feel even worse, thinking about my newborn being poked and prodded.
I had to leave the room. I felt guilty for not being able to stay. I felt weak. I went to the private nursing room to pump, while I called my mom crying. I wanted to be standing beside River, but my heart couldn’t take it. This might have been the first lesson in discerning when I needed to take care of myself first.
A Blessing in Disguise
Although spending our first week as a family in the hospital was not ideal; it was a wonderful learning experience for me. I got so much support from the nurses and doctors around caring for an infant and breastfeeding. I’m not sure how I could figure out how to swaddle, bathe a newborn and store breastmilk properly if we hadn’t ended up in the hospital’s care. I guess I would be doing a lot of googling and calling my mom.
Meeting River and getting to know him in a foreign place was a bumpy start to my new journey of becoming a Mother, but it made coming come that much sweeter and precious.
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