Breastfeeding Propaganda

Formula Isn't Poison - Breastfeeding Propaganda Is

The above is a link to a blog post that says some very timely things about breastfeeding advocacy. Who hasn't heard breast is best? Everyone knows. People are so confident about this, and some so zealous to the point of turning virulent on the topic of formula, that life has changed for new mothers.

Breastfeeding is pushed. Formula is at first discouraged, but then demonized. You get breastfeeding advice at the hospital, but even if your baby is losing too much weight, formula is not brought up. Even after a C section, you are roomed with your baby, providing all the care, regardless of how little you may have slept in the many hours or even days surrounding your labour and delivery.

I know I was woken repeatedly by nurses to check on my vitals, when in fact I desperately needed rest. My milk wasn't coming in and no one told me I could supplement. All this in the name of being baby friendly. It was not mother friendly at all. And I'm inclined to think what is unfriendly to mothers is bad for babies.

In the blog post, the writer outlines how on the Ottawa breastfeeding website, it lists all the advantages of breastfeeding and all the disadvantages of formula feeding. Thus, you are left with a lopsided view and you can't help but feel like a crappy mother if breastfeeding has not worked out, or if you just don't want to do it.

I know the Toronto story as well. A public health nurse came to my house and asked me questions about how I was feeding my baby. I told her about my two-day induction, C section, delayed milk, hives, uterine infection and resulting low supply. I said I was on medication to increase my milk, was pumping after feeds and with the help of my aunt (Who was washing all the dishes, bottles and pump parts) was SNS feeding as well. But so far, my baby was still getting mostly formula.

Her response was at first a look of understanding, but then she suggested I pump around the clock every 90 minutes. Then she handed me pro-breast/anti-formula pamphlets and flyers. 

I was stunned. Every 90 minutes? I was recovering from surgery! I still needed help getting out of bed. I had just got home from the hospital where I'd been hooked up to an IV for two days, where I'd not even been allowed to bend my arm or else the machine would BEEP BEEP for a nurse to come in and rejig it. What about getting some sleep and recuperating? My aunt needed to sleep at night so she could help me all day and my husband was back at work, so after feeding my baby, or setting an alarm to wake up regardless if he needed to eat yet, I was supposed to pump and then also clean my pump, and then try to sleep in... what? 20-minute increments all night?

And somehow this exhaustion and stress would improve my milk production? And how about that precious bonding breastfeeding is supposed to promote? Increasing my risk for PPD with all that pressure to succeed while not sleeping at all, this will make me love my baby more? Huh. Because at that point I was teetering on the brink of emotional hell. The only thing keeping me afloat was my aunt, who I had another week with before I was on my own and I was hell-bent on using her help to get my ass caught up on sleep so I could be as well as I could be to handle my baby alone all day.

That was my reality. My body went hugely overdue. I gave the natural way every chance to get moving and nothing happened except growing a massive baby that got stuck in an favourable position with no signs of labour. This depleted me entirely. Aside from the swelling, my limbs grew very thin. Surgery and not being able to move wore my body out more. Getting sick and more bed rest while postpartum frazzled me.

And still, STILL! Why wasn't I trying harder to breastfeed? Why wasn't I choosing to not sleep in favour of boosting my supply for an undetermined and indefinite period of time?

The breastfeeding agenda that was pushed on me gave zero shits about my wellbeing, about helping me become more confident as a mother, or about acknowledging my feelings or situation.

The pendulum has swung too damn far in the other direction. Formula used to be de rigueur. Now breastfeeding is the sign of good mothering, anything else be damned.

There is a middle ground here. It starts with understanding not every woman will be successful at breastfeeding for a variety of reasons. Secondly, not every woman will want to do it, again for a variety of reasons. For those women who want to, they will need medical, familial and societal support to feed wherever and whenever they and their baby require, no being shamed into the bathroom. They need to know what to expect and how to problem-solve issues. For those who use formula, they need information how how to do it safely, what to expect, and what sorts of formula is out there and what the differences are, and how to choose a bottle that works.

True informed choice means acknowledging that formula is good for babies. A baby will thrive, grow and become indistinguishable from breastfed babies on formula. There are no antibodies and you have to pay for it, but there are lifestyle benefits which may increase quality of life for mom and thus her baby by proxy, as well as other family members. Every woman is capable of assessing these decisions herself with the input of relevant members of her household.

Most moms I've met are breastfeeders. I see them feed in public with a cover, with no cover, whatever; they're aiming for three months, six months, a year, a wait-and-see timeline; some are combo feeding, out of necessity or preference; some are exclusive pumpers.  I'm supportive of them all. 

The real moms I've met in the city are supportive of me too. If any in my regular group judges me for formula use, I haven't detected it. Things are easygoing and there's a live and let live kind of attitude. This group has grown very popular and everyone looks forward to it. It's inclusive and friendly. Public policy would be wise to take note. Inclusive attitudes towards differing choices mothers make creates a sense of community, which benefits everyone.

Breast is not best. It is marginally better when life allows for it to work out. It's not as catchy, but at least it's honest.

A Letter, An Admission

This has been hard to write. I know people who know me will read this. If you see me in person and want to let me know you read this story, that's okay. But I likely will not want to talk about it. 

Some time ago I wrote a letter to patient relations at the hospital I birthed at. My midwife had spoken to the manager of obstetrics on my behalf, but had encouraged me to actually write a letter because that would be the sort of thing that would amount to real results. My cousin, a nurse, also told me she knew that would be the only way anyone would hear my story or that any change may happen.

 It took me four months to do it. It took that long for me to get into the right head space to first be able to really remember what happened to me, but then to actually write it down. It was hard to do. I know I shook and sobbed when I typed out my story and I hesitated before hitting send. I was so scared that I'd get a reply back and hear to the effect that it was a personal problem and that I should get over it.

 I spoke to the manager of patient relations soon after. She went over my letter and got more information from me and was compassionate in her questions. She asked me if I wanted a call from specific persons on staff. I realized, no, I didn't. Again, I didn't think I could handle hearing any excuses, and if that could possibly happen then I didn't want to go through that. I asked for the manager to call me back herself and let me know any follow up.

 A couple days ago I got that phone call. And here's what happened:

The head of obstetrics went over my medical information from the birth and said that a C section was medically indicated, that I did have a good reason to have one and that I didn't need to have been put through an induction if I preferred surgery.

Staff in the department were read my letter and will be given more training in handling patients with my sort of situation.

I was given an apology.

I didn't have much to say on the phone. I was sitting on the floor, holding Jack and quietly crying. It's hard to remember that experience without becoming emotional, but I was so relieved. I felt vindicated. I'd been walking around with this wound in my heart from how I was treated and now I feel like I've been acknowledged as a person, not just as the former vessel for my baby.

I'm going to post the letter I wrote, and then I'm going to have to explain one thing I mentioned in there, which I've rarely ever discussed before. I feel like it's time.

I gave birth at *** on April 3 of this year. I'm unsure of where to start, but perhaps laying it out in point form will help give you an idea of what I'm upset about with regards to the birth of my son. It's been a long time coming, writing this, but I must. I go to a dark place when I relive my son's birth but I have to do this.

1. I was admitted on April 1. I was 43 weeks along with a midwife and was 0 cm dilated and not effaced. I had tried every natural induction technique known to woman kind with no progress. I requested a C section since I felt strongly inducing from zero would be a hellish and unsuccessful experience. I was denied this on the basis that it would be better for baby to birth vaginally. This doctor, Dr. D, seemed to give little regard to my concerns for my own wellbeing at being put through an induction, which of course carries its own risks.

2. The nursing staff treated me like an emergency because I was 43 weeks along. I told them my grandmother gave birth 10 times all at 43 weeks, and successfully. This did not alter the air of anxiety they approached me with. One nurse said she'd bet me $100 there would be meconium in my waters.

I understand the stats about stillbirths and going 43 weeks. I also know that study was performed in the 50s prior to the age of ultrasounds and non-stress tests to detect pathologies in overdue pregnancies. My scans and tests (Performed every other day) were always perfect. There was no need to treat me like a ticking time bomb.

3. The Cervidil caused me to burn internally for 12 hours. I could barely walk. This garnered me 0 cm of dilation. The resident, a young redheaded woman whose name I don't recall, badgered me into allowing a cervical check. I wouldn't allow it because I was suffering so badly. Only when my husband intervened and told her to back off did she stop hounding me. I very very disregarded by this woman. She was condescending and dismissive of all of my concerns. She cared only about being textbook and had no bedside manner.

4. I have a history of sexual abuse. It was incredibly challenging to share this with my midwife, who was good enough to share this information with the staff in the hopes of getting their support. This did not sway staff from wanting to insert their fingers inside my vagina multiple times (sometimes with no real compassion for my emotional and physical pain) or reconsider the C section for my mental wellbeing.

5. I was given a foley catheter next, and morphine to sustain the pain. It was very painful, but thankfully due to the drugs I didn't care and I can't recall how it felt. This was the only part of my induction that didn't bother me.

6. They broke my water when the foley dilated me to 4 cm. I was okay with this, but was not alright with being forced into staying in bed. I wanted to walk around to try and start labour, but was not allowed to. When labour didn't begin within an hour I was bullied about being given oxytocin. 

7. I declined the oxytocin many times. I said I didn't want to have it. I would have (Obviously) been happy to have a C section at this point, but they were hellbent on forcing labour to happen against my body's will, and to use methods against my own better judgement.

8. I'd been kept awake all this time, not allowed to sleep. The nurses would wake me to check my vitals every 30 minutes. At the point I was forced to have the IV (I had lost my will to fight at this point) I'd been awake since 8:00 a.m. on April 1, and it was late into the night on April 2. It was inserted into my hand in such a way I could not put pressure on it, removing my ability to bear weight during labour. After I started crying, a nurse agreed to relocate it.

9. I couldn't sustain more than three hours on oxytocin and needed the epidural. This didn't prevent me from feeling the catheter go in. For the rest of the night I was stuck flat on my back in bed, awoken every 30 minutes and by 7:00 in the morning I had dilated to 5 cm.

10. When the nurses changed shifts, a new nurse came in and didn't check the positioning of the fetal monitors. She noticed a drop in the heart rate and everyone started rolling me around. The OB wanted to insert monitors on the baby's head. Another internal violation of my body, a body I could no longer use half of. I could have had this all over with if I'd just had surgery when I asked for it. This was when I broke and demanded the C section. Finally, mercifully, after two days I was granted my request. I think it's hypocritical to treat a woman like her baby's in imminent danger for being 43 weeks, but then not allow a C section. Which is it? 

11. My recovery was terrible. I developed hives and no one knew why. I was awoken by a nurse every hour or so to check my vitals, and this was on top of my baby waking me. I got no sleep for the two days I was in recovery. This may or may not be the reason my milk didn't come in.

12. I developed a uterine infection five days post partum. I was told I'd go back to Labour & delivery so I could take my son with me. Instead I was taken to a post-op wing with only a communal bathroom and no space or accommodations for my baby or a companion to help me care for him. My milk had trickled in and now I was removed from the one thing that would have helped build my supply: my baby. 

13. There was no support for me to pump. The sink in my room only ran luke warm water and I couldn't clean my pump, nor could I keep track of the time or get up without assistance. I had to ask for Tylenol and was treated with suspicion for wanting pain relief at all, despite being only five days post surgery. My midwife came to visit me and was very worried about me developing PPD.

The end result is I couldn't breastfeed. Perhaps had I been given the C section rather than being exhausted for two days first this wouldn't have happened. Maybe if I'd been cared for post op in a location that better suited my needs as a new mother, this wouldn't have happened. No one gives you any information about formula in the hospital, it's all about breastfeeding. But then I was set up to fail. I live with that failure every day.

From time to time I cry about what I went through. My son, who everyone was so worried about, was as healthy as his scans and tests indicated he would be (And 9lb 13 oz). I, on the other hand, who was treated like a vessel, deteriorated. I'd chosen midwifery to avoid this very sort of birth. But I wasn't so committed to a natural birth when it looked unlikely. I was willing to go 43 weeks and let it happen naturally, but it didn't. I was flexible about my plans. I was ok with a c section to avoid the complications of inductions and risky vaginal birth of a huge baby. For reasons I will never understand, I was put through the ringer against my will and put at risk of an infection I, of course, developed.

I don't feel my best interests were considered. I didn't bond with my son for two months due to this terrible birth. I was in a very dark place and through the support of my family and midwives I was able to break free. 

But thanks to the experience I had at ***, I will never have another child. I will never go through that again. 

When I was 16, my first boyfriend sexually assaulted me. It took me over 10 years to admit that is what happened. When I was a teenager, I knew about rape. I knew it meant a man forced his penis into a woman against her will. But I didn't know other types of assault were possible. I didn't know they were assaults.

This boy, who I only dated because I had very low self esteem at the time and didn't believe I could do better (I was being bullied in school and didn't think anyone would ever want me), used to penetrate me with his fingers. I'd say no, he'd do it anyway, fast, forcibly and it hurt. It happened all the time. Sometimes I bled. Sometimes I mentally went somewhere else. I didn't know what to do. I was out of my depth.

I didn't know why he was doing that. I had no experience with boys, didn't know what was normal, didn't know how to respond. My mom, who was vigilant in teaching me to leave any relationship that was abusive, didn't know. She always said if he hits you once, leave before he can hit you again. But we never discussed sexual things. I just didn't know better, and so I suffered and was confused and after a brief time of dating him, I dumped him because the abusive behaviour became verbal. I knew enough to dump him for that. And I learned I'd rather date no one ever than anyone I didn't care about or who was an obvious loser.

And for years I didn't think about what he'd done to me. I was jumpy with new boyfriends in my life when it came to sex. I had to force myself to relax and calm down, which became my normal. I experienced stinging pain from being tense and anxious about being out of control of my body when I was intimate with someone. Exams at the doctors caused me to melt down, shaking, sobbing and frequently leaving the doctor unable to perform the task at hand.

And then I got pregnant, and knew I had to see a midwife because they don't require pelvic exams. 

On the first day I saw my midwife, I asked about internal exams and got the answer I needed: They were unnecessary. And she asked me if I'd experienced any sexual trauma in my life. And I heard myself saying yes, and knew I wasn't lying. I didn't know what the trauma was, though. I hadn't admitted what I allowed to happen to me was an assault. Because that's how I remembered it: I allowed that boy to hurt me and did nothing. Therefore, it was my fault and not an assault.

But I slowly came around. I eventually was able to go there.

While I was lying in bed, hooked up to my epidural, with the oxytocin going, exhausted from lack of sleep and having been violated by all the hands that had been inserted to me in the past day and a half, I told my doula what happened to me when I was 16. 

I was scared she would think it was no big deal, that worse things had happened and women deal with that stuff all time time, and what was my problem? But she responded with distress that I'd gone through that, and acknowledged what happened to me was, in fact, an assault. 

I can't say enough about what it means to me to classify that experience as such, instead of it being a bad sexual experience I didn't fight hard enough against, something that was my fault for not stopping, for allowing to happen more than once. To have someone tell me I was wronged. It was normal for me to feel this way. I was not overreacting. 

That gave me courage to share my history in the email. Because it was a part of the problem and they needed to know. It was also part of the reason I took so long to write the damn letter, because I knew I'd have to share that part and I never fully felt ready.

My vindication from my letter was not just for knowing I should have had a C section, it was knowing they're planning on training staff better on how to treat labouring women who've been assaulted. 

My heart has been broken for so long over how broken my body has felt for half my life. I feel like I've turned a corner of some kind, like I'm ready to move forward with my eyes open. I feel so raw. Maybe now I can finally start dealing with this.

The Infection

I never described my time in the hospital after I was admitted for my uterine infection. After getting home, I just wrote about motherhood and how I was adjusting to it. I think a part of me was still too emotionally fragile over it to write about the experience, although a part of me recognized it was a good story, best told with some perspective and distance.

I may as well rehash a bit, as this is best told as a complete story in and of itself.

I was only home a couple days (At least I think it was about two days. It was a blur pain, sleep and total confusion. Let's say two days' worth) when I developed violent chills, the sort that rock your body uncontrollably. I'd gotten chills from my epidural, and I had them again after my C section. Those chills  didn't make me feel cold inside, only out of control of my body. But at home, they resonated at my bones. I was freezing from the inside out.

My aunt covered me in blankets and then tried to warm me with her own body, draping herself over me while I shook and chattered. I eventually fell asleep, warmed enough, and woke up drenched in sweat. It was then I discovered I had a fever of 38.8 Celsius. I drank water, took Tylenol and I can't remember what else only to lower my temperature down to 38.6.

So I told the Dude and my aunt and the Dude called my midwife, who said I had to go to the ER. I knew this was necessary, I understood it was sensible on an intellectual level, but I didn't want to go. I had only recently gotten rid of my hives, I was aching from my incision and exhausted was not a strong enough adjective to describe how incapacitated I felt. A hollow, "NooooOOoooOOoooOOoooo..." escaped me and there was pretty much no way out of another trip to the hospital.

My father-in-law was in town and drove the Dude and I to the ER while my aunt stayed with Jack. I seriously don't know what we would have done without her there. This was not the only way in which she went to bat for me in the aftermath of my terrible birth.

I was admitted quickly, which didn't bode well for my prognosis. On one hand you're happy to be taken seriously enough to be sent right in. It sort of makes you feel justified in making the trip. On the other hand, it sort of means you're effed.

I was laying on a bed in a large room separated by rows upon rows of thin curtains. There were dozens of machines rhythmically beeping. It almost sounded like new age techno. To pass the time and distract myself from my own issues, I eavesdropped on other people's misfortunes. The ER is truly a smorgasbord of human misery. I heard about the medical history and slow decline of an elderly woman in the partition next to me, and the doctor's belief she would not last the night. The Dude and I bore witness to her Last Rites and though I'm no longer a practicing Catholic, I quietly said the Lord's Prayer with them and had a little cry.

When I was seen by the doctor after three hours at 4:00 a.m. I was given the option to sleep there and have an ultrasound in the morning, or go home and return in the afternoon. I couldn't bear the thought of the woman actually dying beside me to the music of the machines, so I went home.

In the morning I had a great time. I felt better, took a picture of my son sleeping, pumped a bit and felt optimistic about my ultrasound. My hope was misplaced and I was fast-tracked to get my diagnosis. Two residents informed me of my infection and I was given an IV in an inconvenient place in my elbow. I was told I'd be going back to Labour and Delivery and could bring my son.

I was wheeled out of the ER and sent not to L&D, but instead to the east wing, an old 1930s building that seemingly had never been updated to so much as include air conditioning. It was the post-op recovery floor and I was about to be put in a room with some strange woman who didn't look happy I was to be her roommate. At this point I began to lose it.

I would have to share? Pump next to a stranger? Share a room with someone and have my son in there too, and the Dude? How would that work? The Dude ran over to the desk and didn't come back till he had secured me a private room, apparently after meeting a lot of resistance to this. I calmed a bit, but resumed my rising hysterics when I saw the room I'd be staying in. There was a bed, one chair, a sink, and no attached bathroom. Again, what about my son and the Dude?

I was told I could arrange to have my son in there if I really wanted to, but companions were not allowed overnight. There was also no furnishings to house my son in the room, and obviously with no companion my ability to care for him was crap. It took me five minutes just to leave my bed and I was attached to an IV that was plugged into the wall. I started sobbing while the Dude pried the nurse for answers. She tried to answer them, quickly lost patience and said she'd "Better not say anything else."

The Dude was eventually told he could in fact stay, but he'd have to sleep in the chair. He hadn't slept in days, I was worried about his health at this point, plus he had to work in the morning. We argued and I won, sending him home to sleep after he brought me some provisions. My father-in-law stayed with me upon the Dude's request, worried that I shouldn't be left alone in my emotionally fragile state.

After the changing of the nurses, the night nurse told the Dude and his dad they had to leave. She was grumpy, perhaps hearing that I was difficult. She was short with me about my questions regarding my IV. I felt despondent and lost. I was separated from my son, who was less than a week old. My only solace was sleep, but though I was beyond tired, it didn't come easily to me. I laid awake feeling almost numb from disbelief.

The next day was mostly spent unable to move, fiddling around online, pumping breast milk, attempting to nap, chatting with nurses, drinking nursing tincture, making complicated trips to the bathroom and trying to stomach hospital food.

I did have some visits. The first was from the resident who diagnosed me. She seemed horrified I was not in L&D and had been separated from my baby. I found this soothing because in an effort to make me feel better, most people were telling me it was fine and not so bad, which made me feel crazy for thinking it wasn't fine and was actually very bad.

The next visit was from my midwife, who was concerned I might develop postpartum depression after all the madness. She encouraged me to save the milk I was pumping (I was icked out by the ward and didn't want to bring hospital-laced milk home) and to have the Dude bring Jack so we could spend time together. I initially didn't want him to because I wanted him away from the hospital, but I was easily persuaded away from this idea.

Third was my friend Karen, who brought me a bag of goodies to ease the discomfort of the hospital, plus a collection of silly hats. We wore the hats and as staff walked in we made no comment on them. I was wearing a giant turkey and Karen had on a lobster. She stayed with me for hours and lifted my spirits enough to believe I was going to be okay. I felt almost normal again.

Lastly came the Dude, his dad and stepmom and Jack. Still wearing the hats, it was a ridiculous party. Holding him was a salve, but watching him go hurt and I cried. I didn't feel at all able to care for him yet, but when he left I felt a little empty.

The next morning I got a visit from my father-in-law and after he left, I was discharged. It was a glorious feeling. He came back with his wife, and they took me home. I had help waiting for me, I was rested, and I can honestly say that everything improved from there.

The week my son was born was the worst of my adult life. So many women would say it was the best, but I'm being totally honest. It was the worst. 48 hour failed induction and sleep deprivation, followed by a C-section and then more sleep deprivation, hives, chills, an infection and separation, all in a week.

However, the weeks that followed have been full of joy and learning.

Silly hats only.

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.

This is a crappy way to labour.
Fetal monitoring

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.

Something this small and innocent looking was the cause of much suffering.

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.

Giving birth should not be this effing complicated.

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.

42

Still. Pregnant.

I hit 42 weeks yesterday. I have little humour left to share about it. Calls and texts and emails abound from people who love us and I no longer want any of them. 

Yes, I've heard of that method of induction. I don't care what suggestion you have. I've heard of it, and I've either tried it and it didn't work or I think it's silly and have disregarded it as an option. Last night I attempted acupuncture. Seeing as I'm still in this state, I'm guessing it didn't work.

I've also tried sex (which hurts, for the record. I'm too big and nothing feels good), spicy food, herbs and supplements, walking, meditation--

Just got a phone call from someone I talked to a month ago about RESPs. 

"Still pregnant."
"Oh, awesome!"
"Not really."
"..."

I can't escape this.

I went in for an ultrasound and the technician could have been kinder. I laid there on my back, aching from the pressure and strain and tried to support my lower back with one hand, my head with the other (So my acid reflux wouldn't act up and make me vomit) and I coughed. "Could you cover your mouth?" Yeah. I know it's bad to not cover a cough, but my body was screaming at me to deal with the increasing discomfort, burgeoning on pain. She never tried to help me up and seemed mildly confused about my inability to move with ease.

And then I got sent up for a non-stress test again. Apparently a low heart rate. But when I got there and was tested, the heart rate wasn't low. Low end of normal, yes, but not low. And then I ate a cookie and there was all sorts of activity. 

My midwife came and was reassuring. She had to talk to an OB about me, as I'd hit 42 weeks and there are laws governing these things. 

The OB came in and more or less told me I was risking baby's life by not inducing today. She applied tons of pressure and eventually I couldn't look at her. I knew in my gut she was wrong. Baby was kicking, with a strong heartbeat and I felt fine. Totally over being pregnant, yes, but healthful. But there  she was, reaffirming all the reasons I avoided obstetric care in the first place.

She suggested I do various invasive hospital induction techniques that I knew I couldn't mentally handle. And by "mentally handle", I mean experience a fight or flight response wherein I will freak out and likely kick the doctor involuntarily. I don't care to go into why I'm like this, only that I am. This is not something I can suck up and handle. My primal self will fly off the rail. I tried to explain the impossibility of this and it fell on deaf ears.

My midwife talked to the doctor privately without me and when she came back let me know the doctor was not alarmed by my data, that everything looked good. It was just the fact I was 42 weeks along and everything wasn't exactly perfect. The numbers of certain things, things that were never recorded even a handful of years ago, were off by fractions. And for that this OB had me sobbing in the hospital room. I had to sign a waiver stating that she had informed me of my risks and that she was off the hook.

Now I'm home and feeling drained, discouraged and otherwise unhappy. Do I think baby will come when the time is right? Yes. Do I have faith in myself? Yes. Does it make this any easier to bear? No. No, it doesn't.

I say yes, you say no, I say pelvic ultrasound, you say go-go-go

This entry features smatterings of TMI, FYI.

So today was an exercise in patience. Everything seemed to be on track until about 10:30. I arrived at 9:30 for my ultrasound appointment. Was all good and pumped for the pelvic one, which is no small thing.

I started off asking the ultrasound lady if the gel was going to be cold. She said yes as she gave it a hefty squirt all over my tummy. It was mildly uncomfortable, but whateves. It wasn't the bad part so I went with it. Thing is, though, she told me to get dressed after.

Me: I was told there was going to be a pelvic ultrasound.
Her: Nope.
Me: They wanted to check for ovarian cysts.
Her: No. Your pain is in your sides. That's the kidneys.
Me: They scheduled me for it. They're going to want to see results.
Her: There's nothing I can do for you.
Me: But--
Her: No, that's all there is. Get dressed.

*Sigh* She was all assertive and stuff and I wasn't wearing pants, so she won. I got dressed and told the people downstairs that I didn't get the second ultrasound. And then there was running around and questions and eventually I was told to wait in the waiting room.

Two hours and change. Then they have me move to... another waiting room. I'm not sure how long I was there exactly. It was marked "Interview" and had calming colours. At first I was freaked out because it looked like a place you tell people bad news.

But when 15 minutes passed and no one came, I figured no news was good news so I took a nap in the chair. I briefly woke up to see a nurse walk past and shake her head at me.

About 1:45 I was sent up for the pelvic ultrasound. Same woman. I wanted to say I told you so. She noticed my small scars from when I had my appendix out a few years ago. She asked about them and I said they were from an appendectomy.

Her: Oh! (Laughs)
Me: Uh yeah, hahaha? (The hell?)

I dunno, I didn't get it either. Didn't think I made a joke. She wanted to know when my last period was. I thought about it and said Saturday.

Me: It's one day
Her: When was the first day of your last period?
Me: I think it was Friday or Saturday. It's over now. It lasted one day.
Her: Is it your 10th day into your cycle?
Me: No, my period just ended. It started Saturday. It lasted one day.
Her: Last Saturday?
Me: This Saturday.
Her: Are you having your period now?
Me: No. It's over. It lasted one day.

And this is where she brought her fingers to her forehead and furrowed her brow, because clearly it was I who was giving her the headache. Eventually she grasped what I was saying.

Her: Your period lasted one day? It was this weekend and it's over.
Me: Yes.
Her: Is this normal for you?!
Me: Um... yes? (Why is she mad at me? Jebus Murphy)

This dialogue went on with accusing questions about how I could let myself have such strange menstrual cycles for so long. It's not like I've never mentioned it to a medical professional before. I have. They all say "Lucky you!" I dunno. It's very convenient and I haven't been inclined to see if I can make it longer again. God hands you so little favours, why look a gift menses in the mouth?

As predicted the whole magic wand in the hoo-ha procedure was a little icky and unpleasant. I don't recommend it if you're looking for a good time. But rather than wait this time, I took matters into my own hands. See, I hadn't had anything to eat or drink all day. I also only went to the bathroom for the first time at 2:00 pm. I was pretty much done.

So I walked into the clinic area and said if they had any news for me, I'd like a phone call because the time I had left to stick around was limited. And just like that, within 20 minutes I saw a doctor, got my results and was out of there, but not before someone made me change into another hospital gown for no reason.

Diagnosis? None. My ovaries both apparently have quite a few follicles on them, and the doctor took a stab and guessed one had grown into a cyst and burst, causing my pain. He recommended Advil. Huh.

So I guess I'll take my results to my family doctor for her records and see what happens. I feel like I went through a lot for very little gain. Last time I went to this Urgent Care Centre they couldn't find anything wrong either and within a week or so I had to have my appendix out. So I don't entirely have the same faith in them as I do, say, Toronto Western ER. But anyway, the day is over. That's all that really matters to me. I'm going to have some hot chocolate.