Memories MondayFive years ago today I was getting towards the end of my fourth day as a mother -- I'd had: a 36 hour labor, an emergency c-section, breastfeeding that wasn't working any way we tried it, including standing Mirthe on her head (or so it seemed to me, but that's what the lactation nurse wanted to try) and two different roommates (one of them with twins, twin boys, both 7 pounders and the first grandsons in the family after something like 20 granddaughters -- so the entire family came to visit, constantly, ignoring all visiting hours rules.) I hadn't washed my hair, or showered for that matter, in six days. I'd had an IV and a catheter and couldn't get out of bed the first two days. I'd lost two litres of blood and so, as I was looking a little pale and felt like I was constantly on the verge of passing out (hence the not being trusted to take a shower) they decided to replace that blood -- only the nurse didn't hook up the second unit of blood correctly, so it ended up dripping all over the curtains and the bed and poor Mirthe, and I, of course, completely panicked because I thought she was bleeding, or I was, or both. I practically pushed the alarm button through the cement wall, I pushed so hard, until a nurse showed up and got pissed at the other nurse who didn't do it correctly and after about five minutes of "discussion" they finally got me and Mirthe and the bed cleaned up, and the second unit restarted. It took a while, and then they rolled Mirthe away to the baby room and I was left alone to put up with another hour of my roommate's visitors, most of whom seemed to be under the age of five. They spent most of the hour peeking under the curtains of my half of the room, and giggling, and saying things in a foreign language that I myself had only been speaking for 18 months -- so technically, they were the language experts here.
I'd been crying off and on (mostly on) for those first four days and that evening was no exception -- I laid there in my bed and felt the tears coming and couldn't stop them, even though I desperately wanted to. I didn't want to cry in front of those kids. I wanted to be happy, happy with my baby and not feel like a failure, to feel like a
mom. I tried to cry quietly (you know how that never ever works?) and I tried to listen for Mirthe, a room and a bit of hallway away -- because my roommate said that
she could always tell which baby was hers, when one of them was crying, and that seemed to me like something that moms should be able to do. But I couldn't. I couldn't hear anything except my own tears and the lump in my throat, and the dark blanket of misery that was dropping on me.
I lost it. I started sobbing, and was filled with such a deep longing to see Mirthe, to see my little baby girl. I was scared and everything hurt, I felt like such a
nothing. Alone.
And as always, in moments like that,
something stubborn inside of me takes over and starts giving instructions.
Get up. Go to the baby room and find Mirthe, and bring her back here.So I managed to swing my legs over the side of the bed, take a deep breath and stand up. Tears were running all over -- my face, my arms, my nightgown -- and I couldn't find my slippers, too much crying and I didn't dare look down, afraid I might pass out. I shot a mental "Bugger off!" to the little kids who were silently staring at me now, and half leaning on the walls and doorways, I managed to get to the baby room and Mirthe's bassinet. I looked around. Nobody in sight. I picked her up and laid her against my chest and took a deep breath -- that wonderful smell, her beautiful black hair on my cheek, the warm weight of her in my arms, against my heart.
I stood there for a while on my wobbly legs, building up a little strength to walk the forty metres back to my room. It seemed like forty miles. And this time, I couldn't hang on to the wall. So I sort of shuffled back, still crying, still not meeting the gaze of anyone I passed. I have no idea of how long it took, but I remember that when I got back, Eric was there to visit. I sat on the edge of the bed and sobbed, and wouldn't let go of Mirthe. I was crying so hard I couldn't talk, the only thing that came out were those sad little noises seals make. Eric had no idea what to do with me. My head was pounding and Mirthe was awake and starting to move around. That feeling of panic hadn't left, it had only gotten stronger. I had done what I wanted, I had Mirthe, but it didn't seem to be helping.
And that's when something amazing happened. A nurse appeared, out of nowhere -- a wonderful, calm nurse, just for me it seemed, a nurse I had never seen before. She picked up Mirthe and laid her in the bassinet that she'd brought. She talked to me in a low, reassuring voice. That everything was going to be okay, that she was going to get me cleaned up and back in bed so that I was comfortable. And then we'd talk.
And that's what she did. She gave me a sponge bath. She changed my sheets, gave me a clean nightgown. Propped the back of my bed up. She brought Eric a cup of coffee and a cold brown beer for me (this sounds crazy to my American friends, I know, but the only alcohol a Dutch hospital stocks is brown beer for the maternity ward -- it's supposed to help bring on the milk production.) I don't drink beer, but I drank that one and
it was good. And she kept talking to me, sat on the edge of the bed and held my hand and kept saying that everything was going to be okay. She asked about the breastfeeding and didn't make me feel bad when I said it wasn't working -- she got me an electric pump and showed me how to pump and store the breastmilk, and how to feed Mirthe using an injector and my pinkie -- "finger feeding" she called it -- so that Mirthe wouldn't have to drink out of a bottle. And when I was stronger we could switch back over to breastfeeding. She didn't take Mirthe away, she let her fall asleep in my arms. If I wanted to I could keep her there the whole night. It was okay. Everything was going to be okay. And I believed her.
I never saw her again. There are days when I think about her, usually around Mirthe's birthday, and know that she was probably an angel, sent to help me. Sometimes I just think that she was a good person, doing her job (doing it well!) Sometimes I think I dreamed it all. Whichever it is, and wherever you are:
Thank You.
