The Hospital Saga

Norah was born at a local hospital that is known for it's "birthing suites." It isn't the Ritz, obviously, but for a hospital room they were pretty nice, and most importantly, they were private. We ended up spending 6 nights there, so privacy was a must. As soon as all of my autoimmune nonsense got diagnosed and we started getting referred around to specialists and high risk OB's, we realized that any subsequent babies would have to be delivered at Stanford because that's where the experts (at least for my issues) are. Now, don't get me wrong-Stanford is a state of the art medical facility and amazing feats of science happen there every day. The NICU is the best in the area and everyone you talk to will tell you, hands down, it is the place you want to be if you have anything even slightly amiss.

Stanford also has shared post partum recovery rooms. Seriously? You expect women who have just given birth-some the old fashioned way, some through a major abdominal incision to SHARE a room with a stranger? It was literally one of my biggest sources of anxiety pre-birth. There are a handful of private rooms but they are limited and doled out on a first come, first serve basis. The only real priority is given to women with multiple babies.

Anyway, as we were taken from recovery in the OR to the room I immediately asked what the status of the private room situation was. Given that I had to recover in the freakin' OR, I imagined that the place was pretty full and I was right. No private rooms. We were taken to a shared room that was empty and the nice nurse saw the tears in my eyes and promised me she would do her best to 1) delay me getting a roommate, and 2) get me into a private room as soon as possible. I don't know how much influence she had, but I wasn't taking any chances. I kissed her ass so hard.

For the next couple of hours I tried to breastfeed (unsuccessfully-more on that later) and worked on moving my cement legs. Norah and Bubby showed up, which was awesome, and while she was interested in Louis she was far more interested in playing with the hospital bed, eating my ice chips, looking through cabinets, etc. They didn't stay long and as soon as they left it happened.

Dun, dun duuuuuuun. My roommate moved in. I am sure she was a very nice woman, but it wouldn't have mattered if Mother Teresa moved in next to me, she was immediately my nemesis. She brought with her a noisy husband and entourage of family members that included a ONE year old son. Now, these rooms were small to begin with and once you have a roommate they pull closed these "privacy" curtains and suddenly my very small room became excruciatingly small. Like it was just the bed and a very tiny surrounding area. Claustrophobia alarms in my head were on high, high alert.

BVZ and Louis and I hung out while I dozed on and off from the pain meds and BVZ made some phone calls. All of a sudden out of no where I started puking in my ice chip cup (sorry, M-way too much TMI for you, I know...). For those who know me, you know that I HATE to puke and will do just about anything to avoid it. There was no avoiding this. I am assuming it was a reaction to coming down off the anesthesia, but christ. It was gross. As soon as the puking stopped the coughing started again. And didn't stop for the next 48 hours or so. Try coughing non-stop after major abdominal surgery. It isn't pretty. Then try asking the HOSPITAL you are at for some freaking cough syrup. You would have thought I was asking for crack or something. It had to be called into a doctor, then cleared through a pharmacist, and then doled out by the nurses. It was Robotussin, people.

Anyway, M and A came to visit Monday night and their presence was a very welcome relief. And A brought Lou a birthday cake! (Or a box of bundt cake bites, to be exact.) I couldn't partake until the next day because I was still on a liquid diet, but I stashed several away, BVZ ate a ton, and then we shared the rest with the nursing staff (again, trying that sucking up part). Soon after the girls left we decided BVZ should try and go home to get some rest as well. We had decided beforehand that he wouldn't stay at the hospital. It would be too uncomfortable and we figured Norah would need as much normalcy as possible. Besides, with the shared rooms there aren't even cots for partners-just non-reclining, arm chairs.

He left and I figured my roommate's husband would leave too. No such luck. Now, posted everywhere in the room were these signs that said if a support person slept over in a shared room, the nurse had to have verbal permission from the roommate. No one ever asked me for permission so I figured there was no way he was planning on staying over. It wasn't until about 11:30 and I heard him snoring like a goddamn GRIZZLY BEAR that I realized some rules were being broken and man, I was pissed.

Now, I was no peach of a roommate either, don't get me wrong. I was sad and lonely and coughing as though I had an iron lung. Coughing while pregnant doesn't hold a candle to coughing after a c-section. IT HURT. I was also exhausted beyond belief. At some point, around 3:00 am I think, when the nurse came in to take my vitals I lost.my.shit. Like, completely lost it. I cried a big 'ole ugly cry to this poor nurse who must have thought I was a total basket case. I sobbed and sobbed and sobbed that roomie's hubby was keeping me up (truth be told, I probably wouldn't have been able to sleep even if he hadn't been there, but it was icing on the cake and a focus point for my break down). I explained that it was making my claustrophobia and anxiety 9 million times worse. The nurse was totally nice and did her best to find me a private room, at 3:00 am no less, but it was impossible. The joint was full.

It was a fitful rest of the night and when morning came and I got the yucky catheter out, I started cruising the halls trying to figure out what the private room situation was (discharge was at 11:00 am which is when I assumed the re-arranging would start). 11:00 am came and went and the official word was still that there were no private rooms. BVZ's presence helped a lot and I tried to concentrate on, oh-the BABY, but I was still really worked up about the prospect of another sleepless night. Things took a bit of a serious tone when we had a consult with the pediatrician who advised us that Lou needed his frenulum clipped if we wanted a chance at breastfeeding (again, much more on that later). It was a simple procedure done at my bedside. Very little blood and even less crying. Louis is a tough dude.

I cornered the day nurse at one point that afternoon and told her that I was really upset because the husband had spent the night and no one had asked my permission. She kind of blew me off. So I did something I reserve for the most serious of occasions-I broke out lawyer voice. I explained very calmly (in lawyer voice) that the rules had been violated and under absolutely no circumstances was I okay with hubby spending the night again. She seemed to take me a lot more seriously and I heard her ask him about 15 minutes later if he planned to spend the night again. He said yes. She said, 'okay' and left it at that. My head just about exploded. I gave her the evil eye as she walked out and decided she had until 6:00 pm to make it right or I was letting her have it.

Right at 5:00 pm, she ran in whispered-"private room! Private room! We're moving NOW." It hurt so bad to even move a centimeter, but you better bet that in that moment I moved fast. Really fast. The room was small, but no one else was in it, which is really all that I cared about. I am a little fuzzy on the chronology of some things that went down, but at some point we learned that the on call pediatrician heard a slight heart murmur and wanted to have us evaluated by the heart center. They got us in right away and BVZ and I took Louis to the same place where I had all of those fetal echos and he got an outside baby echo cardiogram. This consisted of him laying on his back on a table and getting an ultrasound of his heart. It took forever and I kept falling asleep, which made me feel like an asshole. I wasn't particularly worried about the murmur because I knew Trevor had something similar and I got some great info from Aunt Stephanie right before the echo, so I knew what to be on the look out for.

We got back and settled into the new room and Bubby and Norah showed up. I was so glad to see her even though I was falling asleep mid-sentence (I have decided Percocet isn't my drug of choice-give me Vicodin any day). Soon S came to visit armed with an awesome Batman/Superman cape for Louis and some Toy Story figurines for Norah (which have since become her favorite toys of all time). She also offered to take a few pictures, since she is amateur photographer extraordinaire.


This is literally the first time Norah held Louis. I am so grateful to have such beautiful documentation of it. It is the perfect picture to put in her 'Big Sister' frame.



I was feeling a lot more hopeful about things and everyone went home and Lou and I tucked in for a night on our own. Except I couldn't freaking move. In all the times we talked about how great it would be for BVZ to sleep and Louis and I to bond, we somehow overlooked the fact that I would be so restricted physically. I had to call the nurse every single time I needed to get Louis in or out of his little isolette. I needed help going to the bathroom. It sucked. I finally just asked if I could keep him in the bed with me, but they advised against it (truth be told I was actually glad they said that because I was terrified I would fall asleep and drop him).

When BVZ showed up the next morning I let him know he would be spending the next 2 nights with me out of pure necessity. I give him props for being a good sport about it. We got the report from the cardiologist that Louis has a very minor VSD (ventricular septal defect). It is incredibly common and in a place that will very likely close on its own. There is no concern whatsoever and we go back in 6 months just to make sure. One benefit of all of those fetal echos was that I got to know a lot of the residents and attendings in the cardiology department and at least 3 of them checked out the report and personally came to reassure us that things were just fine.

Thursday and Friday was all about lactation. Or, should I say, lack there of (separate post in a bit). M came to visit again and one of my favorite friends, T. Their faces were a welcome relief from the nurses. There was a lot of walking the halls. The physical recovery has been tough. I don't remember it hurting this bad last time. I know the coughing aggravated my incision, but last time by the third day I was cruising the halls with ease. This time walking to the bathroom just about did me in. It got a bit better every day, but I was no where near where I was last time when we left the hospital.

Oh, and want to hear the best part? With a few minor exceptions I avoided any severe rash/hives outbreaks during the entire pregnancy. I tolerated the surgical scrub, the staples, the gauze, the tape, and the seri strips without so much of a bump. But, by the time I left the hospital the tops of my thighs, sides of my hips, and my entire backside was covered in an itchy, welty, hivey, horrifically red rash. The culprit? The freaking mesh underwear they have you put on because of all the nasty post partum bleeding. THE HOSPITAL UNDERWEAR beat me. Did me in. Slaughtered me.

If that's not bad karma, I don't know what is.