I just kept staring at him, hoping it would hit me. I wanted to feel that overwhelming flood of love and connection. I felt it hanging out just around the corner but it seemed hard to catch onto. But there was a curious, parallel set of feelings that were powerful and new. They were rather vague in nature and their purpose was unclear but they induced me to clutch maniacally at him, then suddenly and just as frantically, to de-clutch, worrying that I was suffocating him. I kept noticing I was clutching again and would then relax my arms to near-tonelessness to rescue him from my suffocating grip. This foreshadowed the first few months of motherhood…for much of that time I just sat with him on the couch, scared to carry him around and when I did, I could think of nothing other than that I might drop him at any second, and clutched him madly in my arms.
They brought us to the postpartum floor and we settled into a double room that we were to have to ourselves for our 4-day, barring-any-problems stay. One of the first things they wanted to do was take some blood. Well, they sucked at that too. Poke, poke, fish around, sob, finally they drew a little blood and I told them, anticipating their next move, it’s enough. I’m not sure it’s enough, the nurse said. It’s enough, I said. That’s all you get.
Other indignities awaited. The anesthesia was wearing off and they started pushing pain meds. They made me stand up the next morning which was incredibly agonizing, to go to the bathroom to remove the catheter. They also removed the IV and told me my pain meds would be PO from now on. It was great to not be connected to anymore tubes but the pain steadily increased and I began to think, really? Women do this all the time? Major-ass surgery? Sometimes electively? It really sucked. I found out what my pain med orders were and rejected them as laughingly insufficient. Vicodin? Really? That useless bottom-of-the-barrel substance is for, like, a sore foot after you run too far. Percocet? A bit better. I found out that the doc had written the Percocet orders for 5mgs if my pain was 5 and under, 10mgs if 6+. Usually, when they asked me what my pain level was after that, it was a six or seven. “It’s always a six or seven!” a nurse complained. “Well it always is!” I insisted. There were other complaints and comments and generally insensitive remarks around the pain meds on most days. You sure like your pain meds, one nurse observed. Yes I do like my pain meds. I like them very much. Pain, by definition, SUCKS ASS. Why am I being made to feel like a goddamn pussy for not wanting to be in agonizing pain while trying to get acquainted with LD? I hate that stupid American ethic of “suck it up, weakling.” But to what end? If god had wanted us to suffer he would not have given us the poppy and its pals, synthetic opiates.
The nurses were really bossy and for the most part, annoying. One, Sue, spoke in my unfortunately racist, least-favorite style: clipped Tagalog-accented English. You not need meds now! You had only 3 hours ago! She never listened and just talked over me, telling me to get up! Walk! Stop laying around! You need to walk! One of the lactation consultants made me cry with her brusqueness and implications that I was already a bad mother on day two. The baby needs to eat. It’s on you to get him to eat. He’s too sleepy. What can I do to wake him up? What should I do to make him eat?! It’s on you, mama. See ya. Gotta go encourage someone else to take up bottle-feeding (maybe she was taking money on the side from Nestle). We ended up having to supplement with formula for a while until my milk kicked in as LD’s blood sugar was getting low. Another deviation . . . another failure.
