I remember my first visit to the doctor once I was pregnant. He laid it all out for me plain and simple; "You make it to 32 weeks I’ll have a sigh of relief, You make it to 34 weeks and I’ll be happy…You make it to 36 weeks…well I’ll be incredibly happy and you’ll get a take home baby." A take home baby. Well I’m a pretty black and while thinker and this seemed pretty simple to me. Make it to 36 weeks and I’m home free. A take home baby. That was my goal…36+ weeks and my take home babies.
I stayed in the hospital 4 days after the babies arrived and towards the end of that time the boys seemed to be having trouble nursing…both of them would work themselves up into a frenzy while trying to feed and then they would become so tired that they really weren’t eating. Everyone kept talking about my milk coming in like it was some special thing that would fix all the feeding problems…and I waited and waited…but the milk never seemed to come. So that last night I began to express breast milk (even tho it hadn’t come in yet) and feed the babies with bottles and that seemed to work and they ate and that gave me some peace.
But the very next day (the day we were to go home) the pediatrician came into my room. He did not have good news: the babies had lost more than 10% of their body weight and this was very serious. We had to supplement with formula immediately and if the boys didn’t gain weight by 4pm they would have to be admitted into the special care nursery. The minute he left I began trying to nurse again….I was in the midst of this endeavor when one of the lactation consultants came in…probably summoned by the pediatrician or the nurse on call. She walked right up to my bed, grabbed the baby from my arms and said, “You can’t nurse a fussy baby” And there she was…a woman I’d never met before…trying to calm my baby. And so the day continued to decline as this woman went on to tell me all the things I’d done wrong, and to hover over me with unwanted instructions. And then and there a little seed was planted: “This is all my fault”
The day went from bad to worse as I frantically tried to feed the boys, breast, bottle, breast milk, formula….please, oh please just eat. In the middle of this chaos the nurse came in to take their temperatures and discovered that their body temps had dropped drastically. They were having trouble maintaining their body temperatures. Everything was so interrelated, they were using their energy to try to eat and yet they weren’t getting enough calories to compensate for the calories they were using to eat and they were losing weight and as they lost weight their little bodies were unable to keep up. The nurse told me that she would have to take the babies to the nursery immediately and she left with the boys…and I was alone. I began to focus on going home…this was our day to go home with our 37 week, take home babies. It had never occurred to me that we might not be able to leave the hospital the same way we came…together.
Everything was packed and ready to go and I walked down to the boutique at the end of the hallway…and then, there was the nurse and I knew by the look on her face that the day was going to get even worse. It was 4pm. David and Jonathan had not gained weight…my sister asked me if I was ok. I said yes, I was fine. But I was not fine. The babies were headed for the special care nursery and it was all my fault and I was not ok.
We walked back down the hall and a lady from the hospital with a big clip board walked up to us. There were several women waiting on rooms and I needed to leave the hospital room immediately. She followed us down the hall just to make sure that we were leaving asap. Scott, my sister and I walked into the room, gathered up our stuff and my diner tray and walked out of the room…our arms were full, I was so tired and emotionally drained…I started to cry…the nurse is following us down the hall asking what’s going on…I haven’t signed the discharge papers yet…shes upset we’ve been kicked out…I’m upset I can’t take my babies home…the day keeps on getting worse.
We’re led through a labyrinth of hallways to the special care nursery. I’m exhausted from the frenzy of the day and trying to feed the boys. I feel like I’m in a dream…a bad dream and I don’t know whats going on. Something is wrong, our boys are in trouble. Once we get to the nursery Scott goes to bottle feed the boys while I go to express more breast milk for them…its all I can do for them right now. When I’m done I go to Scott…he asks me to go get the nurse to get help…the babies aren’t taking any of their bottles.
As I approach the nurse she looks concerned, she has David under the warming apparatus trying to bring up his temperature. I tell her that my husband is having difficulty feeding Jonathan and I ask if she can help us. She looks at me and says something that cuts like a knife…”Why is he feeding them, why aren’t you?…don’t you want to? “ And in my head I know, this is all my fault.
And so it went, down and down and down. The pediatrician comes to talk to us…the boys must be tube fed and we stand by feeling helpless as tubes are put down their noses…David pulls his out…they put it back in…and we hate it but at least we know they will be fed.
We were going to spend the night in the nursery with them but Scott looks at me and tells me I need to go home and get some rest. I can only imagine what I looked like at this point. We call my sister to come back and pick us up and Scott and I wait in the lobby of the hospital. I went to a spot just inside the automatic doors and sit on a little bench. It suddenly hit me how bad I was feeling, physically I mean. I’ve just had major surgery and I hurt. I can barely move. I notice people keep coming up to the door but they can’t get in…it won’t open from the outside. I move my foot in front of me and tap the “magic spot” that opens the door from the inside. Later Scott comes to check on me and mentions that its after hours and that’s why the door isn’t opening. I shouldn’t really be letting people in the hospital that way. But more people come….and I keep reaching my foot out and tapping the floor to let them in. Its like a small bit of retaliation to the establishment that has taken my boys and won’t let them go. Stickin’ it to the man with a tap of my foot. Tap... Tap... Tap... The… worst… Day.
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