"Recovery"

I could sum up my recovery in one word. Hell. But, I'll give some details. You're welcome.

I awoke (and I use this term loosely) to a nurse shaking me. Before I was even able to process the words that were coming out of her mouth, I was aware that I was in an excessive amount of pain. It took all of my concentration to not just start screaming.
She was telling me that I needed to feed my baby. NOW. I was not pleased with this rude, painful awakening, accompanied by her demand, and told her to fuck off. She persisted. When I was able to concentrate somewhat on exactly what she was telling me, it went something like: "The baby won't take sugar water, he won't take a pacifier, or a bottle, and when we finger-fed him formula, he puked it all over the place. He's turning the nursery upside-down, and making all the other babies cry, too. He's screaming, he's hungry, and he wants you. You need to feed him. I will help you do that."
Ok. Fine. This was the last thing I wanted to do, but she uncovered me, and somehow got him to latch onto my nipple. I passed out.
Whatever she did to teach him how to nurse properly must have worked, because I had no problems getting him to latch on later.

I was in and out for the rest of the day. I was semi-conscious of being in immense pain, and numerous worried nurses (accompanied by my mother) trying to fix a problem with the machine that was supposed to be giving me my automatic doses of morphine, but wasn't. Late in the evening, they were finally able to get a replacement unit. They gave me too much, probably hoping that it would help make up for the lack of drugs earlier. As soon as I moved my head, I threw up all over myself. It was very undignified. I felt disgusting. They put something in my IV to hopefully fix that, and I felt a little better, although I was still in pain. A long sleepless night followed. I tried, but I couldn't sleep for more than 15 minutes at a time, and this was mostly the feeling of passing out, not really going to sleep. I don't remember anything about TJ. I know I must have fed him, and I know he was rooming in with me. Being in the nursery made him scream constantly, and the nurses didn't know what to do to soothe him.

The next day, I told my nurse that the catheter was hurting. She said it was nonsense. After several hours of arguing, they told me if I wanted it out, I would have to take it out myself. I agreed to this. It really was causing me a great deal of pain, and the little extra was just too much to deal with. I didn't care that I would have to get out of bed or use a bedpan, I wanted it gone. It was agonising, but I did it. The relief from the pressure was almost immediate. The first few times I had to pee, it felt like I was pissing razorblades. Being stubbon me, I refused to use a bedpan, and painfully made my way to the bathroom every time I needed to go, leaning on my IV stand. That catheter, however, started me on my way to chronic UTI's, which I have been dealing with for the last 11 years, even after seeing a urologist to try to fix it.

My third day was better, if only because the nursing shifts changed. My new nurse, Claire, was the woman who had given my Lamaze class. I had liked her then, and she didn't disappoint me in her capacity to give me the care I really needed. She would help me to the bathroom when I needed to go, fetched me drinks & snacks if I wanted them, and was even able to convince me to take a shower. Showering was I had been unwilling to do- I did NOT want to see that gash across my abdomen, much less touch it to clean it. I did, much to my surprise, feel better for having a shower. Claire sat on the toilet in the bathroom, in case I needed help with anything. It was a good thing she was there, because I couldn't move around very much, and I did need help to actually wash. It was a strange feeling to have a nearly complete stranger touching my most intimate places, but at that point, I was still in a great deal of pain, and beyond caring. Modesty had flown out the window, and it never came back. And honestly, I don't miss it.*
Later on that day, Beth & Suzie both came to visit me. Beth told me I would be discharged tomorrow. I immediately broke down into tears. I was not ready to go home yet. She said that she could get me an extra day, but after that, my parent's insurance would no longer cover my stay no matter what documentation she gave them, and I would have to leave. Since there was nothing else I could do about it, I tried to mentally prepare myself for going home.

On day four, my milk came in. Oh. My. God. I had gone from a perfect 34B pre-pregnancy to a 38C. Now, I had no idea what the hell size they were, but they were HUGE. They looked like I would crush TJ's head- they were each about twice the size of it. That was scary. And these things were a part of me. This was the first time I had issues with getting TJ to latch. My breasts were so engorged that my nipples were nearly flat. It was like he was trying to suck on a balloon.
Claire came to my rescue. She got hot washcloths, and put them on me. Then she dragged me to the sink in the bathroom, and stood behind me, and reached around, and showed me how to manually express enough milk to relieve some of the pressure. It hurt like hell for the first few seconds, and then milk came spurting out everywhere. Like, literally, everywhere. Most of it didn't hit the sink at all, and we had a good laugh at the milk dripping off the mirror. After that, they felt much better, and TJ was able to nurse again. Claire went and got me a breast pump that I could take home with me. Another nurse commented that I had enough milk for triplets. While this didn't make them hurt any less, I was strangely proud that my breasts could do their job properly, and even to excess. Breastfeeding was really the only thing that made me feel like a mother. I never did form a proper bond with TJ, but at least I could feed him.

On the fifth day, I did feel more ready to go home. Knowing that I could breastfeed helped a lot, because up until that point, I had serious doubts about being able to care for TJ. I was fairly indifferent towards him. I went through the motions, but I didn't feel like he was really my baby. He could have been any baby, and I would have done the same things.


*This would be a source of amusement for later boyfriends, and even my girl friends- they always got a kick out of seeing me go about naked, doing everyday tasks, with no concern at all. I've been told most girls aren't like that. The way I see it now, everyone had seen my everything, and it was nothing to be nervous about. Bodies are bodies, whatever they may look like, and everyone's got the same stuff. No big deal. My mother was also something of a nudist, so I guess this is an inherited thing- or maybe just something you learn to forget about. I never thought it was a big deal when my mom was naked, and she wasn't surprised when I adopted the same attitude to being unclothed.