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Friday, April 21, 2017

"I Rocked A Baby Today"

I do a lot of things in my line of work. And yes,  one of the things I do is rock babies...

-I rocked a baby today because she didn't understand the convulsions that her little body experienced as someone else's heroin addiction coursed through her.

-I rocked a baby today, though I had no time to do so,  because his mother decided that she didn't want him, and he didn't ask to be born into a world that would immediately reject him. 

-I rocked a baby today because just hours earlier I watched as two nursery nurses used their incredible knowledge and unparalleled skill to breathe life back into her when she was born without breath. 

-I rocked a baby today because he was born silent, and because the pain and devastation of looking at her dead child is too much for his mother in this moment. 

-I rocked a baby today because mine were the hands that pulled her from her mother's arms as life circumstances have deemed her an unfit mother. 

-I rocked a baby today, simply because I can, and because no matter how many times it goes right, no matter how many times it's "just part of my job", no matter how many "birth"days I witness, I will never lose sight of the beauty and the privilege of being present in that moment. 

I've written about my profession before, but today I write to highlight a very specific area. I am an OB nurse. I'm a "rocking babies" nurse.  I write this because while in the elevator, during a rare break in my day, a fellow RN looked at my scrubs, recognized that I worked in OB, and said with pride in her voice, 

"I have 16 patients today!" 

I replied, "I'm sorry that you feel overworked. I know the hospital as a whole is at capacity right now. I hope your day turns out ok."

She then looked at my uniform again and said, "Yeah...wanna trade? You take my 16 patients, and I'll 'rock babies, or whatever'."

So, today I write to let my fellow OB nurses know that I see you. I know and understand the depths of your dedication and your compassion. I see that you have earned every bit of that RN that you proudly display behind your name. I know that your knowledge and skill goes far beyond what's taught in the classroom. I know that although your experiences seem to others to be full of "baby rocking bliss", that each day that you work has the potential to tear at your soul. 

Do not underestimate your ability to make a lasting impact in the lives of your patients. Do not let the uneducated comments of other people, specifically other nurses, undermine the work that you do. While empowering your patient to do one of the hardest things she'll ever do in her life, don't forget to encourage yourself along the way. Don't forget to tell a coworker that you're here for her when something doesn't go as planned. 

We always have the opportunity to encourage one another in practice. Consequently,  we also have the option to tear each other down. Choose to encourage. That's what REAL nurses do. It's not in the uniform, or the stethoscope, or in the number of patients. It's the act of getting back to why we decided to "rock babies" in the first place. We wanted to make a difference in the health and life of another person. If that means that today I rock a be it. 

Wednesday, March 1, 2017

Today hurts, And Tomorrow Will Too

It hurts. It burns. My life without you. It's wrong. It's disconnected. It's gray. It's not like the picture I had in my head. Today I burn with the pain of your absence. Today I look for any reminder at all that you were here. That I did indeed touch you and hold you, that I laughed with you and felt the weight of your body in my arms.

I don't understand who I've become sometimes. When you were here I knew who I was. I knew my role. I recognized my emotions and my reactions to every day life. That woman made sense to me. She believed the things I understood to be true. She reacted to certain situations in a way that is recognizable to other humans. This new woman, this mother without her child is so very different. She looks different to everyone, but how can she look so different to me? She IS me. And yet...she can't be.

I'm not the same mother. I'm not the same nurse. I'm not the same friend. I can't be where others are in certain situations. My responses to "tragedy" and "death" do not match the faces of those around me. My feelings about prayer don't quite make sense to most. I don't know how to fit. I couldn't even if I tried.

The day you left, I should have gone with you. And that scares most people. They don't understand that fully. "You have so much to live for here." "But we would miss you." "What about your other children?" They don't understand me. But I don't understand them. It's not a desire to die. It's a desire to be somewhere that I understand. When you die, you aren't supposed to be here anymore. And yet, I am. I'm still breathing. I don't always understand how that's possible. I remember my breath stopping, my heart stopping. I remember that moment with more clarity than any I've experienced before or since. And my nurse brain says that that moment should have been it.

But then there was that next moment. The one that I heard myself breathe again. I hated that breath. I despised that next heartbeat with every fiber of my being. At times, I still do. It beats differently now. I can hear the reluctance in its efforts sometimes.

I don't understand the days that are functional. I feel like I'm pretending until I can get back to you. And yet, some parts are so genuine that I feel immense guilt at my ability to truly enjoy a moment, no matter how brief, without you here.

Even this moment, full of painful rambling is an attempt to be closer to you. To connect with the incredible pain that makes me KNOW that you were here, that you were, are, and always will be a part of me. The most painful, the most beautiful, the most real part of me that I will experience in this particular lifetime. Some days I want to wear a sign around my neck that says, "I may look functional, but I'm broken. Please don't forget the broken part of me. Please love that part too." It's my favorite part most days, actually because it's the one I understand. When no one else can understand me without you, I can connect to my own brokenness and feel you.

Until I see you again, I am reduced to pictures and videos. You are here physically only via superhero momentos, the clothes still hanging in your closet, and the handprints that I can only trace with a longing finger. That's not enough, and yet it has to be.

I have no beautiful way to wrap up such rambling, because this feeling continues far beyond these few paragraphs. These words will come to an end. The rambling will appear to stop for the moment. But in reality, the hurt and the confusion will continue to beat in time with my reluctant heart.

Monday, January 30, 2017

Random Thoughts from a Labor Nurse

Ok, so this is basically just an "I'm a labor and delivery nurse and these are some things I need to get off my chest" post. :) Let's start with how much I love my job. I mean, I have the absolute honor and privilege of being present at one of the most incredible moments in a person's life. How cool is that?!?! The gift of that is never lost on me. Having said that, there are a few things that might be helpful to those who don't have that privilege every day.

First of all, let's talk gestation. Listen, if you're not at least 38 weeks pregnant, don't even consider saying the words, "I just want this kid out." Here's the deal, most of us know exactly how you feel. We've been there, too. It is incredibly uncomfortable past 36 weeks. Everything is uncomfortable. Sleeping? That doesnt happen anymore. Breathing is difficult, and pretty much every movement brings with it some sort of joint pain (thanks hormones). And we can even sympathize with each of these aches and pains as many of us have indeed been 38, 39, 40 and even 41 (GASP) weeks pregnant. BUT, you know what we've also seen? We've seen babies born too early who, best case scenario, have to stay in the hospital much longer than the average stay so that their lungs can develop more fully, and so that they can start gaining weight. You think you're uncomfortable now? Live in a hospital for even just a week. You'll want to tear your hair out. And that's if things go well! We've also seen babies have to be shipped to another facility to receive the care they need to become strong enough to go home, and this is while mom sits in our hospital until she is deemed OK to be discharged to go be with her baby. Talk about a crappy situation, and one that we don't wish on anyone. I can't tell you how many times I've heard "my baby can come any day" when mom has just barely reached 37 weeks. Any ob nurse worth her salt will tell you that we often see 37 weekers that do WORSE than their younger counterparts. Why? Who knows, but it happens.

Obviously, there are exceptions to every rule and some babies must come before they're due. I get that. I'm not an idiot. I realize that there are some very specific reasons for that and that in those situations, delivery benefits outweigh the risks. But, if you are healthy, and your baby is doing well, let that thing bake as long as it can! It will be worth it in the end. I promise. And while we're on this subject, if you say, "my doctor says I won't make it to my due date" just go ahead and plan on being induced on or after that due date. The truth is that none of us know when a baby is coming. Babies come when they come. Let's leave that timeline up to the big dude, ok?

Alright,  now let's talk about a few myths out there that seem to be accepted as fact.

First, "I lost my mucous plug. My baby is coming." Ummmmm, well, that's not exactly how it works. You need to be in actual labor before we can say that your baby is coming. And the mucous "plug" can shed different parts for several weeks. The truth is that we have all kinds of fun, disgusting substances surrounding that cervix of ours and the closer we get to delivery, the more it comes out. Is it gross? Sure. But does it mean a child is about to wave at you from your vagina? Nope. And just for the record, if you think you've lost your mucous plug, I don't need to see it. I promise I believe you. Please don't bring it to me in the hospital in a plastic container. (Yes...this has happened)

While we're on the subject of yucky substances coming out of places you think they shouldn't,  let's talk about water breaking. It's actually more rare for water to break on its own. The doctor usually has to do that for you during labor. However, it does happen. And this is actually one area where I encourage patients to come in and get it checked out. The truth is, not all water breaking looks like an epic flood. Sometimes it just slowly trickles out. And how are you supposed to know if it's fluid or urine? Honestly,  it's very difficult to know. So, just let us help you figure that out. Even experienced nurses and doctors who are pregnant wonder the same thing at times. And could you have totally just unknowingly pissed yourself? Sure. But why not know for sure? If you're ruptured (water broken) for too long before delivery, you risk infection to your baby. And you know what? If you did, indeed, pee yourself, that's OK too. Any woman who claims not to have done that at least once at the end of pregnancy is just lying.

How about this one? "My baby hasn't dropped yet." Girl, that's not real. Ok, can a kid settle lower into the pelvis as birth becomes more imminent, sure. But if you don't look like you're about to literally crap a bowling ball, don't sweat it. If you've had more than one child (multip), that thing can sit in your tonsils until about 2 seconds before delivery and then come flying down like it's being shot out of a cannon. We don't care where that kid is hiding. As long as it's head down and you're in actual labor, we can work with that.

Now let's talk breastmilk. Does everyone breastfeed? No, of course not. And I'm not going home with you, so you can feed that baby any way you'd like! Formula is not poison. However, if you have any interest at all in breastfeeding, I will work with you until we're both exhausted. I believe in it. I respect it. And I do believe it's worth trying. So, there are lots of fears surrounding breastfeeding, including "not having any milk". You have milk. You do. And I can show immediately after birth that this is true. It's not the thin white stuff that you're used to, but it's there. In fact, it's better!! It's thick, liquid gold. The truth is, a good breastfeed lasts about 15-20 minutes and has periods of sucking/swallowing that alternate with periods of rest. The kid just got here! Let's give him a minute to figure out this suck/swallow/breathe thing. He'll get there. Initially he's only going to swallow once per every 9-10 sucks. Why? Because that first (awesome) stuff is colostrum and it is THICK!  So, don't stress if your kid isn't a hoover, the second we hook him up to the trough. Sometimes it takes time. Usually the initial feeding ROCKS, and then they kind of appear to lose interest and want to sleep. But think about what just happened to them. Their heads just got squeezed out of something orginally the size of a grape. Let's maybe be OK with them taking a nap or two...not to mention, that kiddo is fed until that cord is cut and then it will use its own glycogen stores for the next 12 hours or so. All good here. Be patient. We can help.

Also, "I can't breastfeed because my milk hasn't come in." Ok, this isn't a "thing". It takes about 4-5 days for the milk to start changing from colostrum to that thinner substance we're more accustomed to. But that doesn't mean that you don't have milk. In fact, right now you have the good stuff! So again, patience, my friend. We'll get there. (Again, obviously there are exceptions to every rule and breastfeeding isn't always possible or even just not the best fit for everyone).

Now let's move on to epidurals. They're not the devil. They're not a white flag you wave as you "give up" or "give in". They can be totally awesome! And actually beneficial to the labor process for several reasons. Having said that, I love laboring with someone who doesn't want one. It challenges my abilities as a labor nurse and I enjoy that. I just never want people to feel like they've failed if they've gotten one. You're bringing a human life into the world, hopefully to love and care for it in the best way you know how. If that's your intent, you can't fail. So, epidural or no epidural, just be proud of what your incredible womanly body is capable of doing. It's pretty damn amazing either way.

I could wrote an entire book on this subject, but these are just a few of the things I see and hear often.  I do love my job. I truly believe it's what I was born to do, and I'm so grateful for the privilege of getting to fulfill that dream. So whether you're a first time mom or this is your 10th kid, I look forward to meeting you and cultivating that unique relationship that only a patient and nurse can have. Remember there are several tests we can do during that process, including one that let's me know your water broke....just don't ask me to smell your underwear... ;)

Sunday, January 29, 2017

I Miss Him

I miss him. My god, I miss him. I miss him so much it hurts. It actually physically burns in my chest. I miss the smell of him, the weight of him in my arms, the softness of that beautifully, crazy hair. Today is not his birthday. It's not the anniversary of the day he left me. It's not significant in any way except that it's a day that he's supposed to be here. I'm his mother and he's supposed to have outlived me. That's how this works, right? I mean, that's what everyone assumes anyway. Well, it's what you assume if you've never lost a child. If you have, you no longer carry the luxury of assumption.

I want him back. I understand that he's taught me many important lessons, none of which I could have learned, had he stayed here with me. He's opened my heart more. He's made me more patient, more kind, more open. And I'm a better person because he lived. But you know what? Despite all of that goodness, the truth is that it's just bullshit that he isn't here. I watched some videos today. Those are like deceptive gifts in beautiful paper, but when opened contain knives. They cut quickly and deeply. But you can't turn away. Because there he is. Right there on the screen. It's his laugh. It's his tilt of the head.

I want him back here with me. I want to complain about the messes he's making. I want to whine about being hospitalized again. I want to throw a tantrum over having to pack my things yet again only to be fighting a losing battle.

And we fought.

God, we fought so hard. My whole family fought, but sometimes it felt like it was he and I against the world. And I was naive enough at the time to think that if I loved enough and fought enough and PRAYED enough that it would save him. That it would, indeed, BE enough.

It wasn't. He's not here.

He's not here in the way I want him to be. No, I'm not content with him being an angel. I'm not content with him guiding me from some place I can't see. I want him here. I want gooey, sticky, baby kisses and sleepless nights again.

I'm angry and I'm sad. I'm hurt and I'm confused. I'm grieving and I'm broken. And today hurts a little more than yesterday and tomorrow will hurt further still. Because each day I move forward is one day further from that last moment I held him.

I'm surviving, sure. And I'm grateful for so many things in my life, but all of that gets to live alongside this constant pain. This is a forever sentence. I will feel this ache with my last breath.  And there are days that I wonder if that breath could ever come fast enough.