12 April 2008

The rest of the morning at the hospital

Martin came in, he had left the girls in the car with my dad, they were going to go shopping and stay busy. Jenna had cried, a lot, but she was bouncing back a little. Morgan had looked at him quizzically when he said that there wasn't a baby in mummy's tummy any more, and gone to fetch him a cocoon baby. Her face said, I have a baby! He had cried then, really cried for the first time. I had shed some tears, but felt more empty than sad and still so focussed on how I was going to get better and get home to my family.

How can you cry properly in a place like a hospital, with people interrupting who want only the useful (medical) information and who have to rush off to other patients, other emergancies? He left and another nurse came to change my pad again and look horrified, then go to fetch the male doctor who muttered something to her but said (when I asked!) that he was fairly sure if the bleeding slowed in the next couple of hours I wouldn't be in surgery and could even go home later today.

A friend arrived, wanting me not to be alone. I still didn't know what I wanted, and was just confused and numb and tired, but she came anyway. I was so glad for it, and talked out so much I needed to find a way to say. We talked about hope, and waiting, and the physical side of miscarriage. We talked about the other babies, now three that I was cheated of - wanted to spend a lifetime getting to know and now could not hold. We talked about purpose, and random chance, and faith, and love. We talked about how intense the love is between parent and child, even if the child had a heart that never started to beat. We talked about what might have gone wrong, and whether we would have more children (I already know that I so want to be pregnant again, not to replace this baby but to have another, and with a terrible feeling of the WASTED time).

I would not choose, could not choose, not to have been pregnant with this baby. It was precious and mine, and I was so blessed to have seen it and held that tiny body. It had a path, and a purpose, although it will not walk with me on this Earth. And oh I will miss it forever.

The clinical nurse came in to discuss the medication with me and how it would affect breastfeeding. She agreed with the doctor, that after four hours it would be OK to nurse, but she personally would feel safer with feeding expressed milk. "Um, how would that be better? She'd still get the same medication in the same dose, surely?" Charitably, I don't know if she knew I had been treated already, but she seemed confused by this and covered her confusion by saying that I would get more of a rest.

I explained, as gently as I could, that expressing was damn hard work wheras nursing the baby involved picking her up and lifting some clothing. She talked some more about Morgan "only comfort nursing" (as though that would be a bad thing, my mum said later) and I just ignored her at this point even though she was enthusiastic about breastfeeding being natural and wonderful. She was lovely, but clearly clueless about the importance of breastfeeding as I saw it, and probably went away with the impression that she had helped me.

There were long periods of nothing happening, without Sam there I would have been pressing the buzzer every few minutes to ask what was going on. I'm not a good patient, I've said this before! Amusingly, the buzzer to call for a nurse had a cartoon nurse printed on it; dress, narrow waist, HUGE breasts, carrying a tray with a glass on it. Sam joked about hoping that a male nurse came in when we pressed it, so that we could look confused and say, "You're not what I ordered!" Eventually a different doctor came, said I could eat something at lunch time and then go home, and promised to send yet another doctor to talk to me about genetic testing.

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