Marie Evangeline--Part 2
I was exhausted the night of April 5th after spending the day "getting ready for the baby" by doing a lot of irrelevant things. I wanted to leave a very clean house (I used a q-tip to clean the dust from our AC vents). I wanted to leave a prepared meal or two for my brother, who would be staying with the big kids while I was in the hospital. I wanted to have a long shower and shaven legs and straight hair.
In hindsight, I can see that I wanted some semblance of control. Sure, I nested before my first two children were born, but this time was different—more frantic, more obsessive, almost desperate.
At my last OB appointment before surgery, I had been given a cleaning kit to use the night before birth. Instructions were to shower without conditioner or body wash, use the enclosed disinfecting cloths to wipe my body down afterward, and wear no makeup, lotion, or deodorant. This protocol would reduce my risk of infection, and the kit included a paper to sign and bring with me to the hospital to affirm that I had followed the instructions. I'm a chronic rule-follower and a long-suffering paranoid. Should I fudge the protocol and sign the paper anyway (lie), or admit to wearing deodorant and have my OB think I'm careless? It sounds ridiculous, but it took me a while to decide that I did have a choice in the matter. I would go into surgery with an even complexion, no body odor, and moisturized skin, dang it! Control. I needed to feel in control of something.
The next morning Patrick and I dropped the big kids off at a dear friend's house. As is always the case, we were running late. I feared surgery would be delayed if we didn't check in on time. The combination of no breakfast, no coffee, city traffic, dread of surgery, and Patrick's calm behind the wheel (how could he be so calm?!) had me extremely irritated.
I checked in and was given a room for pre-op. I met my nurse, whose valley girl personality was a welcome bit of comic relief. She gave me an extremely over-sized purple paper gown and rubber-soled socks (I had put much debate into what I would wear that morning; what had been the point?). I think I got up to pee at least three times during the first hour I was there. That hour was strange. No contractions, no pain, no reason to be propped up on a hospital bed. No moaning, groaning, rocking, or walking; just the rosary looping in my head. Patrick did some emailing and ESPN-reading in the chair beside me. The nurse came in and out, in and out, to do things like place my picc line, shave beneath my incision scar (the worst), start antibiotics, and make small-talk about my kids, her dog, our hometowns. My OB popped his head in and didn't even remember the disinfecting kit until I confessed to not having followed its rules. The nurse anesthetist came to explain my three anesthesia options: epidural, spinal, total anesthesia. She explained the potential risks of the recommended spinal and became very apologetic when she got to the death part: "I hate having to say this because it just scares the heck out of people--it's such a rare side effect--but it's a legality thing..." Even though I understood that severe anesthesia complications are rare, I appreciated her tenderness more than I could express.
I signed forms to acknowledge that I was aware of the risks, and soon after, my bed was wheeled to the operating room, leaving Patrick behind to put on his paper coveralls and wait for a nurse to fetch him later. A friend of mine recently had a cesarean and was given the option of walking to the OR. If we're given another baby one day, I'll be requesting that option: to walk myself down the glossed hospital hallway, instead of being pushed in a bed, even if I'm wearing XL rubber socks and gripping the back of my gown shut.
In hindsight, I can see that I wanted some semblance of control. Sure, I nested before my first two children were born, but this time was different—more frantic, more obsessive, almost desperate.
At my last OB appointment before surgery, I had been given a cleaning kit to use the night before birth. Instructions were to shower without conditioner or body wash, use the enclosed disinfecting cloths to wipe my body down afterward, and wear no makeup, lotion, or deodorant. This protocol would reduce my risk of infection, and the kit included a paper to sign and bring with me to the hospital to affirm that I had followed the instructions. I'm a chronic rule-follower and a long-suffering paranoid. Should I fudge the protocol and sign the paper anyway (lie), or admit to wearing deodorant and have my OB think I'm careless? It sounds ridiculous, but it took me a while to decide that I did have a choice in the matter. I would go into surgery with an even complexion, no body odor, and moisturized skin, dang it! Control. I needed to feel in control of something.
The next morning Patrick and I dropped the big kids off at a dear friend's house. As is always the case, we were running late. I feared surgery would be delayed if we didn't check in on time. The combination of no breakfast, no coffee, city traffic, dread of surgery, and Patrick's calm behind the wheel (how could he be so calm?!) had me extremely irritated.
I checked in and was given a room for pre-op. I met my nurse, whose valley girl personality was a welcome bit of comic relief. She gave me an extremely over-sized purple paper gown and rubber-soled socks (I had put much debate into what I would wear that morning; what had been the point?). I think I got up to pee at least three times during the first hour I was there. That hour was strange. No contractions, no pain, no reason to be propped up on a hospital bed. No moaning, groaning, rocking, or walking; just the rosary looping in my head. Patrick did some emailing and ESPN-reading in the chair beside me. The nurse came in and out, in and out, to do things like place my picc line, shave beneath my incision scar (the worst), start antibiotics, and make small-talk about my kids, her dog, our hometowns. My OB popped his head in and didn't even remember the disinfecting kit until I confessed to not having followed its rules. The nurse anesthetist came to explain my three anesthesia options: epidural, spinal, total anesthesia. She explained the potential risks of the recommended spinal and became very apologetic when she got to the death part: "I hate having to say this because it just scares the heck out of people--it's such a rare side effect--but it's a legality thing..." Even though I understood that severe anesthesia complications are rare, I appreciated her tenderness more than I could express.
I signed forms to acknowledge that I was aware of the risks, and soon after, my bed was wheeled to the operating room, leaving Patrick behind to put on his paper coveralls and wait for a nurse to fetch him later. A friend of mine recently had a cesarean and was given the option of walking to the OR. If we're given another baby one day, I'll be requesting that option: to walk myself down the glossed hospital hallway, instead of being pushed in a bed, even if I'm wearing XL rubber socks and gripping the back of my gown shut.
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