We got lucky first time with Rosie. She was the result of one of the four in five pregnancies that ends with a baby. Second time round that luck took a holiday.
Instead of expecting a brother or sister for Rosie early in October as we had thought, we discovered from our first scan that we weren't expecting a baby at all. Our embryo had stopped developing at just over eight weeks and no heartbeat could be detected. A missed or "silent" miscarriage. The radiologist's mouth tightened into a line of regret. "Es un aborto," she said, "Lo siento."
We were stung by disappointment and slightly stunned, but took the bad news calmly. "Ah well," I said to Theo as I climbed off the scanning table, "That's that, then." It would explain why I had been experiencing so few pregnancy symptoms, especially during the last fortnight or so. Everything had come to a full stop.
When we got home, the tears came. Although I was already counting my blessings (better to lose a pregnancy early on; I know I can carry a healthy baby; I know I can get pregnant fairly easily; maybe a slightly bigger gap between children would be better; at least this takes the pressure off our return to the UK etc. etc....) it was still a sad loss and some grief was inevitable. Theo comforted me, as best he could. For him, the initial disappointment had rapidly changed into concern for my well-being. Cuddling Rosie helped me too.
But now we had to turn to the practicalities of the situation. Our radiologist had told me to go to hospital either today or tomorrow...but was vague about the details. A bit of research online told me most of what I needed to know and a friend who'd been through the same thing a few years before told me the rest. I would need a medical procedure called ERPC (Evacuation of the Remaining Products of Conception), once known as D&C (Dilation and Curettage). A straightforward operation performed under general anaesthetic. Bearing that in mind, we elected to go the following morning in the hope that I would be home that same evening.
Accordingly, we arrived at Urgencias Maternidad, Hospital La Paz at nine o'clock the next morning. Theo had taken the day off work so he could look after Rosie and support me as much as possible. We signed in and I was taken off to be scanned again. The staff were kind and friendly (a couple of the younger medics even attempting some reasonable English) and although none of them offered sympathy, they put me at my ease.
I had done the right thing by not eating any breakfast, although the news that I had had a few mouthfuls of water was greeted with some consternation. Eventually they judged I hadn't had enough for it to be a big problem. I was told to remove my clothes and jewelery, then put in a wheelchair and taken to a small ward for two on the fourth floor. It all felt strangely familiar as the room was identical to the one I had stayed in for five days after having Rosie. Except this one couldn't come close to the view we had had on the eleventh floor and the circumstances couldn't be more depressingly different.
Theo and Rosie came to give me a hug and bid me a temporary farewell, then I was joined by an older woman who was given the other bed as she waited to have a bladder operation. I smiled politely and did my best to keep up with her Spanish, using my own imperfect command of the language to explain why I was at La Paz. She nodded sympathetically and told me (I think) that she had also had a miscarriage. But she now had three healthy adult sons to her name, so not to worry. Although she suspected the miscarried baby would have turned out to be a girl and that made her feel sad. I nodded sympathetically in my turn.
A couple of nurses came in, gave me some forms to sign, then popped a couple of pessaries inside me to "soften things up" for the coming procedure. I was then left to relax in my bed and read.
An hour and a half later, it was time to go. My bed, with me in it, was wheeled down to the operating theatre. Outside it, I was asked the same succession of questions by five different people (No, I hadn't eaten since last night, Yes I'd drunk a little water this morning, but not much etc. etc.) Bafflingly, one junior anaesthetist asked me in broken English about the importance of the decision I had made. Confused, I replied, "Es un gestation interrumpido. Es un aborto. Este operacion es necesario, no?" He agreed it was. I think he had been under the impression that I was aborting a live fetus, for some reason.
The operation itself went without a hitch. The most painful part was having two needles inserted into the back of my left hand for the various drips, but the rest was plain sailing. The medical team helped me onto the operating table, stuck my legs in stirrups, tested my blood pressure, sluiced my nether regions with shockingly cold antiseptic then inserted a nozzle in my mouth...and I promptly passed out.
The next moment (probably about twenty minutes or so later) I came round trying to push this strange foreign object out of my mouth with my tongue. When I opened my eyes and saw various medics gazing down at me I remembered where I was. I felt amazingly refreshed and realized this was probably the first time I had slept really deeply since I had had Rosie, more than thirteen months earlier.
"What luxury," I said in Spanish, "Can I have some of that stuff to help me sleep at night?" They smiled and I was wheeled back to the ward, still attached to the drips, and was left to snooze off the effects of the anaesthetic for the next couple of hours.
Rosie and Theo returned to find me well-rested and reaching the exciting climax of my novel. It was then a matter of hanging around until a doctor could be persuaded to check me over and discharge me. Eventually one bustled in after Theo used the simple expedient of waving Rosie meaningfully at the nurse receptionist and saying the baby would need to go home for supper and bed very soon.
I was told I could breastfeed Rosie that evening provided I expressed the first lot of milk to get rid of any lingering anaesthesia. Then I was given an information sheet telling me what to expect over the next few weeks and what symptoms to look out for in the event of an infection. After that I was free to change back into my clothes and go. Which I did.
It was the next day that we discovered I hadn't only left the remains of an embryo behind me at Hospital La Paz. Unfortunately my wedding ring had slipped from the plastic folder where I had thought it would be safe and was most probably well buried among the hospital refuse by now.
I am very hopeful that a new wedding ring and a new pregnancy will both be forthcoming before too long. After all, you've got to try and be philosophical about these things sometimes.
Showing posts with label Hospital La Paz. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Hospital La Paz. Show all posts
Sunday, 20 March 2011
Friday, 18 March 2011
Stay at home Dad - by Theo
When Kate and I first met she was a Senior Broadcast Journalist at the BBC, earning a tidy if not extravagant salary, while I was a freelancer with an overdraft, only managing to feed myself because I was living rent-free in a student hall of residence. It was therefore a matter of simple economics, rather than any true altruism on my part, when I suggested that should we ever have children, I would be more than happy to be a SAHD (stay at home dad) while Kate brought home the lentils. (No bacon please, we're veggies).
"Not on your life", was Kate's reply. Despite being a feminist, Kate was in no way enamoured with this women-empowering option (though I'm sure she was pleased to have the choice). As she put it "You're my pension plan, so you'd better start earning one!" So, sure enough, when Rosie arrived, I was back at the chalkface after my two weeks paternity leave had expired, while Kate slipped seamlessly into full-time motherhood.
However, last week, I finally got my chance to find out exactly what things might have been like had Kate taken up my offer. Kate had to suddenly go into hospital for a relatively straightforward procedure - nothing life-threatening, just one of those things best done sooner rather than later - and I was left holding the baby. Thankfully, I have an extremely understanding boss who had no objection to me taking the day off work - I think the fact that he's also a father helped - as with barely 24 hours notice we had no way to make other arrangements for Rosie, who has never been in non-parental care for more than a couple of hours (usually spent asleep).
Kate was admitted at 9am and though we had thought she might have to stay the night, she was discharged at 7pm, everything having gone smoothly. This was a huge relief, not just because it was great to have Kate home again, but also because I'd been dreading having to put Rosie down for the night by myself (well, not being able to lactate puts me at something of a disadvantage). As it was I was still pretty knackered, having done all Rosie's meals, both naps and her bath, all nappy changes as well as feeding myself (beans on toast) and doing the laundry and washing up.
It was wonderful spending so much time with Rosie and she really was a little angel, not complaining as I switched her from buggy to car seat to sling to high chair, but by the end of the day I appreciated Kate like never before!
"Not on your life", was Kate's reply. Despite being a feminist, Kate was in no way enamoured with this women-empowering option (though I'm sure she was pleased to have the choice). As she put it "You're my pension plan, so you'd better start earning one!" So, sure enough, when Rosie arrived, I was back at the chalkface after my two weeks paternity leave had expired, while Kate slipped seamlessly into full-time motherhood.
However, last week, I finally got my chance to find out exactly what things might have been like had Kate taken up my offer. Kate had to suddenly go into hospital for a relatively straightforward procedure - nothing life-threatening, just one of those things best done sooner rather than later - and I was left holding the baby. Thankfully, I have an extremely understanding boss who had no objection to me taking the day off work - I think the fact that he's also a father helped - as with barely 24 hours notice we had no way to make other arrangements for Rosie, who has never been in non-parental care for more than a couple of hours (usually spent asleep).
Kate was admitted at 9am and though we had thought she might have to stay the night, she was discharged at 7pm, everything having gone smoothly. This was a huge relief, not just because it was great to have Kate home again, but also because I'd been dreading having to put Rosie down for the night by myself (well, not being able to lactate puts me at something of a disadvantage). As it was I was still pretty knackered, having done all Rosie's meals, both naps and her bath, all nappy changes as well as feeding myself (beans on toast) and doing the laundry and washing up.
It was wonderful spending so much time with Rosie and she really was a little angel, not complaining as I switched her from buggy to car seat to sling to high chair, but by the end of the day I appreciated Kate like never before!
Thursday, 11 February 2010
Nipple pinching, ear-tweaking and chamomile tea By Kate
I never thought I'd have my nipples squeezed and stomach prodded by so many complete strangers, but that's life in a post natal ward, I guess. After Rosie's sudden entrance into the world by emergency cesarean she and I spent four nights in room 11-14 at Hospital La Paz in Madrid, which was quite an experience.
Given the limited nature of my Spanish, my communication with the nurses and orderlies was a bit hit and miss at times, but you couldn't fault the quality of care. We weren't in a large ward, but a room we shared with one other woman and her baby (plus the inevitable legions of friends and relatives), which had its own en-suite bathroom. Our babies were with us pretty much throughout, just occasionally being taken off for baths, jabs, tests and so on. Most of our immediate needs were provided - an unending supply of nappies, cleaning materials and clean hospital gowns for both of us. And best of all, our partners were allowed to stay the night - although they had to sleep in reclining chairs.
Rosie and I were given a lot of well-meaning attention (although, when it came to establishing breastfeeding, some of it was misguided - but I didn't know that at the time) and my (and Theo's) learning curve when it came to nappy-changing, baby bathing, cord-cleaning and general care-giving was steep, but satisfying.
While we were in La Paz, we shared our room with three other families - baby Martin with his mother and English-speaking father (very helpful when I needed translations in those first couple of days!!) and their forty or so visitors; Marie, who had just had premature twins by C section, and her twenty or so visitors (but she was with me for less than one day, so I expect the number went up) and baby Arturo plus his Peruvian parents and their thirty or so visitors. What was very touching about the parade of visitors was how much fuss they made of little Rosie as she and I watched the comings and goings with great interest. "Que rica!!" they cried, "Que preciosa!" It was all very gratifying.
Daily entertainment included the doctor's round - a neat, brisk, cheerful man with a nurse acolyte who would waltz into the room and check each patient as follows:
"Have you peed?" (yes)
"Have you pooed?" (yes)
"Breasts okay?" (yes thanks)
"Any pain?" (not much)
"Baby feeding?" (yes)
"Take good care of your babies, Ladies, take care of your babies!"
And that would be it until the next day.
Another part of the hospital routine that made me smile was the relaxing hot drink before bed time. Except usually the inhabitants of the ward had already retired by the time it turned up. It would be around midnight and the lights would be out, husbands peacefully snoozing in chairs, babies dozing and snuffling in cots or their mother's arms and mothers trying to grab some precious shut-eye before the next feed... Suddenly the tranquility would be rudely interrupted by a blaze of florescent lights and the clanking of a trolley as two nurse orderlies marched in and offered us hot milk or chamomile tea, followed by another with her selection of "calmantes" (pain-killers). I would usually take the chamomile just to calm the sudden rush of adrenalin brought on by the abrupt break in our serenity.
The nurses and orderlies varied in attitude from sweet and smiley (including one who would try out a few words of English with us) to no-nonsense efficient, to borderline rude. Some were reasonably patient with my limited understanding of Spanish, others considerably less so. Thank god for our bi-lingual visitors, who helped explain a few crucial things.
One standout character was Nurse Bossy (not her real name) - a middle-aged nurse in the no-nonsense efficient bracket who oversaw our care of Rosie. She did many useful things, including show me the best ways to change a nappy, clean an umbilical cord, bath a baby and see off a touch of jaundice. She was frighteningly rough in the way she handled tiny Rosie, but my daughter didn't seem to mind - like most babies, she could sense a person's confidence and was reassured. I resolved to stop treating my baby as if she was made of porcelain.
Nurse B was also determined to get Rosie feeding and putting on weight - Rosie was far more interested in sleeping than eating and consequently lost 6 per cent of her birth weight in the first two days.
I was encouraged to breastfeed - something I was keen to do - but unfortunately, Rosie just wasn't interested. Nurse Bossy tried various techniques to encourage Rosie to sup at my breasts, including different positions, ear-tweaking and foot massage (both stimulate the suction reflex), but at best, Rosie was managing two weak sucks before dropping off to sleep - not very helpful.
Eventually, Nurse B told us to get nipple guards and like magic, Rosie began to suck. It wasn't surprising, really as she'd been given formula from bottles in the time she'd been apart from me after the C Section and hadn't had the chance to use the magic first hour of life to make skin-on-skin contact and find and latch on to the breast. She was, as the breastfeeding experts put it, "nipple confused" - latex teats on bottles were her experience of obtaining food, so my flexible, fleshy things just didn't cut the mustard. Not surprising the nipple guard found favour, it was very similar to a bottle teat. BUT at least it got her taking the colostrum I was producing and then my milk, when it came in on the third day.
We were put on a two and a half hour feeding regime consisting of unlimited breastfeeding and a regular 20ml top-up of formula from the bottle. By day three, Rosie's weight-loss had stopped and soon she was gaining her grams again. Unfortunately, the nipple-guard/bottle regime merely made the nipple confusion worse, so I had my work cut out to get Rosie to take the breast. But that's another story.
On the whole, I have to say Hospital La Paz was extremely good and looked after Rosie and me very well - even the food wasn't TOO bad, especially given Spain's general lack of experience with vegetarianism. The downsides of being in hospital were the heat - even the warm-temperatured Hispanic inmates found the ambience sultry, to say the least - and the lack of opportunity to sleep. Catnapping during the day was almost impossible with the endless comings-and-goings of nurses, cleaners, visitors, doctors, paediatricians, meals etc. etc. and night-time sleep was disturbed by the two babies; their parents (some of whom snored bloody loudly) and of course, the sweltering heat.
All in all, it was a relief to go home. I was lucky and recovered quickly from my C section, sore abdominals soon subsided and my incision seemed to be healing well. I can't help laughing in a hollow way about all that rubbing in of cream to avoid stretchmarks. Well, it worked, I don't have any stretch marks, but there's not much I can do about the 5-inch scar just below my bikini line, or the fleshy ridge of "overhang" above it. As souvenirs of the birth go, I much prefer our gorgeous little Rosie.
Given the limited nature of my Spanish, my communication with the nurses and orderlies was a bit hit and miss at times, but you couldn't fault the quality of care. We weren't in a large ward, but a room we shared with one other woman and her baby (plus the inevitable legions of friends and relatives), which had its own en-suite bathroom. Our babies were with us pretty much throughout, just occasionally being taken off for baths, jabs, tests and so on. Most of our immediate needs were provided - an unending supply of nappies, cleaning materials and clean hospital gowns for both of us. And best of all, our partners were allowed to stay the night - although they had to sleep in reclining chairs.
Rosie and I were given a lot of well-meaning attention (although, when it came to establishing breastfeeding, some of it was misguided - but I didn't know that at the time) and my (and Theo's) learning curve when it came to nappy-changing, baby bathing, cord-cleaning and general care-giving was steep, but satisfying.
While we were in La Paz, we shared our room with three other families - baby Martin with his mother and English-speaking father (very helpful when I needed translations in those first couple of days!!) and their forty or so visitors; Marie, who had just had premature twins by C section, and her twenty or so visitors (but she was with me for less than one day, so I expect the number went up) and baby Arturo plus his Peruvian parents and their thirty or so visitors. What was very touching about the parade of visitors was how much fuss they made of little Rosie as she and I watched the comings and goings with great interest. "Que rica!!" they cried, "Que preciosa!" It was all very gratifying.Daily entertainment included the doctor's round - a neat, brisk, cheerful man with a nurse acolyte who would waltz into the room and check each patient as follows:
"Have you peed?" (yes)
"Have you pooed?" (yes)
"Breasts okay?" (yes thanks)
"Any pain?" (not much)
"Baby feeding?" (yes)
"Take good care of your babies, Ladies, take care of your babies!"
And that would be it until the next day.
Another part of the hospital routine that made me smile was the relaxing hot drink before bed time. Except usually the inhabitants of the ward had already retired by the time it turned up. It would be around midnight and the lights would be out, husbands peacefully snoozing in chairs, babies dozing and snuffling in cots or their mother's arms and mothers trying to grab some precious shut-eye before the next feed... Suddenly the tranquility would be rudely interrupted by a blaze of florescent lights and the clanking of a trolley as two nurse orderlies marched in and offered us hot milk or chamomile tea, followed by another with her selection of "calmantes" (pain-killers). I would usually take the chamomile just to calm the sudden rush of adrenalin brought on by the abrupt break in our serenity.
The nurses and orderlies varied in attitude from sweet and smiley (including one who would try out a few words of English with us) to no-nonsense efficient, to borderline rude. Some were reasonably patient with my limited understanding of Spanish, others considerably less so. Thank god for our bi-lingual visitors, who helped explain a few crucial things.
One standout character was Nurse Bossy (not her real name) - a middle-aged nurse in the no-nonsense efficient bracket who oversaw our care of Rosie. She did many useful things, including show me the best ways to change a nappy, clean an umbilical cord, bath a baby and see off a touch of jaundice. She was frighteningly rough in the way she handled tiny Rosie, but my daughter didn't seem to mind - like most babies, she could sense a person's confidence and was reassured. I resolved to stop treating my baby as if she was made of porcelain.Nurse B was also determined to get Rosie feeding and putting on weight - Rosie was far more interested in sleeping than eating and consequently lost 6 per cent of her birth weight in the first two days.
I was encouraged to breastfeed - something I was keen to do - but unfortunately, Rosie just wasn't interested. Nurse Bossy tried various techniques to encourage Rosie to sup at my breasts, including different positions, ear-tweaking and foot massage (both stimulate the suction reflex), but at best, Rosie was managing two weak sucks before dropping off to sleep - not very helpful.
Eventually, Nurse B told us to get nipple guards and like magic, Rosie began to suck. It wasn't surprising, really as she'd been given formula from bottles in the time she'd been apart from me after the C Section and hadn't had the chance to use the magic first hour of life to make skin-on-skin contact and find and latch on to the breast. She was, as the breastfeeding experts put it, "nipple confused" - latex teats on bottles were her experience of obtaining food, so my flexible, fleshy things just didn't cut the mustard. Not surprising the nipple guard found favour, it was very similar to a bottle teat. BUT at least it got her taking the colostrum I was producing and then my milk, when it came in on the third day.
We were put on a two and a half hour feeding regime consisting of unlimited breastfeeding and a regular 20ml top-up of formula from the bottle. By day three, Rosie's weight-loss had stopped and soon she was gaining her grams again. Unfortunately, the nipple-guard/bottle regime merely made the nipple confusion worse, so I had my work cut out to get Rosie to take the breast. But that's another story.
On the whole, I have to say Hospital La Paz was extremely good and looked after Rosie and me very well - even the food wasn't TOO bad, especially given Spain's general lack of experience with vegetarianism. The downsides of being in hospital were the heat - even the warm-temperatured Hispanic inmates found the ambience sultry, to say the least - and the lack of opportunity to sleep. Catnapping during the day was almost impossible with the endless comings-and-goings of nurses, cleaners, visitors, doctors, paediatricians, meals etc. etc. and night-time sleep was disturbed by the two babies; their parents (some of whom snored bloody loudly) and of course, the sweltering heat.
All in all, it was a relief to go home. I was lucky and recovered quickly from my C section, sore abdominals soon subsided and my incision seemed to be healing well. I can't help laughing in a hollow way about all that rubbing in of cream to avoid stretchmarks. Well, it worked, I don't have any stretch marks, but there's not much I can do about the 5-inch scar just below my bikini line, or the fleshy ridge of "overhang" above it. As souvenirs of the birth go, I much prefer our gorgeous little Rosie.
Tuesday, 2 February 2010
A Night Of Firsts by Kate
At first I blamed the nut roast we'd had at lunchtime. Shouldn't have been so greedy, I told myself as I took the Metro to Mendez Alvaro where I'd arranged to pay a social call to our former flatmates and pick up some post. While I sat chatting to Pete, I got fidgety. No position seemed comfortable. And I had an urgent need to visit the loo. Bloody nut roast.
After a while I made my excuses and headed back to the Metro. The discomfort was now moving into pain territory. Then it struck me - was I having contractions? Surely not, I had four weeks to go and these were awfully close together and now feeling rather strong. Braxton Hicks, I thought, those "pre-labour practice contractions" I had been told to expect.
Once on the Metro I was finding it hard not to groan and grimace as we trundled back towards Pueblo Nuevo. I was haunted by a recent Metro Madrid advert, which depicts a woman in labour and helped by strangers on the trains as she heads towards hospital to have her baby. I tried not to think about it.
The walk from PN Metro station to our flat seemed interminable and a couple of times I had to stop, trying to remember the breathing techniques I had been practicing ready for the birth. I'll be fine when I'm in a relaxed, familiar place, I thought. A fit of chills shook me, then as I waited for the lift in our building, I felt burning hot. What the hell??
I finally got inside and when Theo saw my face and asked if I was okay I did allow myself a grimace. "I think I'm having contractions", I said. He tried to rub my back and help me but suddenly I couldn't bear to be touched. I moaned on the sofa, trying different positions, but no relief. Then another urgent need to visit the bathroom. Once there I realised I was discharging some blood.
"I think we'd better go and see someone," I told Theo and tried to breathe through another contraction.
With admiral presence of mind, Theo threw supplies into a hastily improvised hospital bag (just in case) - something I'd been intending to organise this week, but never mind - and led me to the car. I felt calm, but couldn't pay attention to anything except the contractions, which seemed to be coming at one minute intervals. Theo, meanwhile, battled with the spaghetti of roads and disappearing signposting that marked the route to Universitario Hospital La Paz - a dry run was something else we had been planning to do in the next week or so.
When we arrived, we explained the situation and I was led away for examinations and monitoring. A very jovial middle aged medic checked by cervix "Only 2cm", she said, "I don't think you need to start pushing yet." Ho ho ho. My contractions were monitored for fifteen minutes then another cervical examination. Despite my imperfect understanding of Spanish, I detected slight consternation. I was now 3cm.
"The problem is," I said, "Is the baby's head is here - she is sitting on her arse." The consternation increased and I was scanned. Yep, I was right. At that point, they obviously made the decision to take our baby "out the window" - although I could only surmise this from the way I was being stripped of clothes and jewellery and given a hospital gown to wear and asked when I had last eaten or drunk anything. Nothing since the nut roast, I assured them.
Then Theo was suddenly beside me. "Are we having her now, then?" I asked, just to make sure.
"They're going to give you a caesarian", he said
"Oh, okay." Another contraction to breath through.
"I love you!" Then I was wheeled away. Watching the passing strip lights above my head I could only think how surreal it all was. I felt completely calm - had done since the beginning, in fact - but couldn't quite take in that I was about have a baby.
In the theatre, the kindly but efficient medical team prepped me for the operation. It was a most odd feeling as the epidural took effect and all sensation in my legs disappeared. Thankfully, so did the pain from the contractions, which was a mercy.
A green curtain was stuck up so I couldn't see my abdomen (although the effect was slightly spoiled by the fact that I could see perfectly in the reflection cast on the highly polished monitor arm above me. I tried not to look.)
"Can I touch my baby afterwards?" I asked. I couldn't remember the Spanish for "hold". Yes, they assured me.
I felt myself being shaved, then something pushing into me, which must have been the incision. Then hands were inside my belly and I felt the baby being physically pulled out, her head finally away from the underside of my rib cage. Very, very strange, but not in the least painful.
A moment later, "The baby's out!" and with startling suddenness she was lifted above the screen for me to see. I was speechless. The only word I managed was an awed "Oh!!" before she was taken from my view. Next the pushing and pulling as they stitched up my wound. "I've just had a baby!" I thought.
"Congratulations!" They all cried.
"This is surreal", I said aloud. The time was 00.15.
The next moment, a little bundle was carried to my head, her face towards mine.
"Little kisses for your baby," said the medic holding her. I complied, the surreal feeling growing. Then she was gone again. I still felt calm, especially as they assured me she was fine. Also, a dawning sense of wonder. I couldn't really take it in.
Soon, the stitches were finished, and trailing a drip trolley, I was wheeled out to the corridor where Theo met me.
"You're amazing", he said.
"Is she alright?" I asked.
"She's perfect!!" he said. Then he told me I was being taken to the intensive care unit on the fourth floor for overnight observation and our little Rosie would be monitored on floor eleven. We would be reunited in the morning. He had been told to go home, but he would come back at the earliest possible time - around ten. He kissed me and I was pushed into a lift up to Planta Cuatro.
Up in the ICU, I was checked and monitored and only here did I suddenly become aware how everything hurt. I requested more pain relief. They gave it to me after pressing painfully on my abdomen. Boy, that was agony.
So, hooked up to various drips, catheters, auto-blood pressure-machines, ECG monitors and gawd-knows-what I tried to get some sleep. Actually, I felt pretty relaxed, but sleep was impossible with machines continually bleeping and the blood pressure sleeve around my arm tightening uncomfortably every half hour. I kept thinking "I've had the baby!" and started to wonder what she was like. All I could remember was a pair of blue eyes and a shock of fuzzy dark hair.
As the clock ticked slowly on, I contemplated my situation. I had never been a hospital in-patient before. Never had anything approaching major surgery. Never been inside an ICU. And - oh yes - had never given birth. And now I was a mother, apparently. Another first.
By morning, I was getting impatient to be with Rosie. I had been watching the clock since I had arrived and now I could hardly contain my impatience as they gave me a bed bath and started unhooking me from the various tubes and wires. I was missing Theo, but all I could think about was meeting my daughter.
"Any pain?" asked a nurse. "Yes," I said. She shoved me in the abdomen. Ouch.
Finally, they began wheeling me away. I was taken up to the eleventh floor and into a room where a woman and her husband and baby were already ensconced in one corner.
"Congratulations!" They said.
"You too!" I replied. And then I heard wheels approaching the door. They belonged to a mobile cot which was pushed over to my bedside. In the cot was a tiny, pink baby - our baby. For a moment I just marvelled at her. Then, despite, the pain in my abdomen, I leaned over and took her from the cot and into the bed with me. I just wanted her in my arms. I smelled her and gazed at her in wonder. This was our daughter. The feeling was indescribable.
Then, twenty minutes later, Theo arrived. We embraced and he joined me in my fascination with this tiny new person we had made. Our family. Now we are three.
After a while I made my excuses and headed back to the Metro. The discomfort was now moving into pain territory. Then it struck me - was I having contractions? Surely not, I had four weeks to go and these were awfully close together and now feeling rather strong. Braxton Hicks, I thought, those "pre-labour practice contractions" I had been told to expect.
Once on the Metro I was finding it hard not to groan and grimace as we trundled back towards Pueblo Nuevo. I was haunted by a recent Metro Madrid advert, which depicts a woman in labour and helped by strangers on the trains as she heads towards hospital to have her baby. I tried not to think about it.
The walk from PN Metro station to our flat seemed interminable and a couple of times I had to stop, trying to remember the breathing techniques I had been practicing ready for the birth. I'll be fine when I'm in a relaxed, familiar place, I thought. A fit of chills shook me, then as I waited for the lift in our building, I felt burning hot. What the hell??
I finally got inside and when Theo saw my face and asked if I was okay I did allow myself a grimace. "I think I'm having contractions", I said. He tried to rub my back and help me but suddenly I couldn't bear to be touched. I moaned on the sofa, trying different positions, but no relief. Then another urgent need to visit the bathroom. Once there I realised I was discharging some blood.
"I think we'd better go and see someone," I told Theo and tried to breathe through another contraction.
With admiral presence of mind, Theo threw supplies into a hastily improvised hospital bag (just in case) - something I'd been intending to organise this week, but never mind - and led me to the car. I felt calm, but couldn't pay attention to anything except the contractions, which seemed to be coming at one minute intervals. Theo, meanwhile, battled with the spaghetti of roads and disappearing signposting that marked the route to Universitario Hospital La Paz - a dry run was something else we had been planning to do in the next week or so.
When we arrived, we explained the situation and I was led away for examinations and monitoring. A very jovial middle aged medic checked by cervix "Only 2cm", she said, "I don't think you need to start pushing yet." Ho ho ho. My contractions were monitored for fifteen minutes then another cervical examination. Despite my imperfect understanding of Spanish, I detected slight consternation. I was now 3cm.
"The problem is," I said, "Is the baby's head is here - she is sitting on her arse." The consternation increased and I was scanned. Yep, I was right. At that point, they obviously made the decision to take our baby "out the window" - although I could only surmise this from the way I was being stripped of clothes and jewellery and given a hospital gown to wear and asked when I had last eaten or drunk anything. Nothing since the nut roast, I assured them.
Then Theo was suddenly beside me. "Are we having her now, then?" I asked, just to make sure.
"They're going to give you a caesarian", he said
"Oh, okay." Another contraction to breath through.
"I love you!" Then I was wheeled away. Watching the passing strip lights above my head I could only think how surreal it all was. I felt completely calm - had done since the beginning, in fact - but couldn't quite take in that I was about have a baby.
In the theatre, the kindly but efficient medical team prepped me for the operation. It was a most odd feeling as the epidural took effect and all sensation in my legs disappeared. Thankfully, so did the pain from the contractions, which was a mercy.
A green curtain was stuck up so I couldn't see my abdomen (although the effect was slightly spoiled by the fact that I could see perfectly in the reflection cast on the highly polished monitor arm above me. I tried not to look.)
"Can I touch my baby afterwards?" I asked. I couldn't remember the Spanish for "hold". Yes, they assured me.
I felt myself being shaved, then something pushing into me, which must have been the incision. Then hands were inside my belly and I felt the baby being physically pulled out, her head finally away from the underside of my rib cage. Very, very strange, but not in the least painful.
A moment later, "The baby's out!" and with startling suddenness she was lifted above the screen for me to see. I was speechless. The only word I managed was an awed "Oh!!" before she was taken from my view. Next the pushing and pulling as they stitched up my wound. "I've just had a baby!" I thought.
"Congratulations!" They all cried.
"This is surreal", I said aloud. The time was 00.15.
The next moment, a little bundle was carried to my head, her face towards mine.
"Little kisses for your baby," said the medic holding her. I complied, the surreal feeling growing. Then she was gone again. I still felt calm, especially as they assured me she was fine. Also, a dawning sense of wonder. I couldn't really take it in.
Soon, the stitches were finished, and trailing a drip trolley, I was wheeled out to the corridor where Theo met me.
"You're amazing", he said.
"Is she alright?" I asked.
"She's perfect!!" he said. Then he told me I was being taken to the intensive care unit on the fourth floor for overnight observation and our little Rosie would be monitored on floor eleven. We would be reunited in the morning. He had been told to go home, but he would come back at the earliest possible time - around ten. He kissed me and I was pushed into a lift up to Planta Cuatro.
Up in the ICU, I was checked and monitored and only here did I suddenly become aware how everything hurt. I requested more pain relief. They gave it to me after pressing painfully on my abdomen. Boy, that was agony.
So, hooked up to various drips, catheters, auto-blood pressure-machines, ECG monitors and gawd-knows-what I tried to get some sleep. Actually, I felt pretty relaxed, but sleep was impossible with machines continually bleeping and the blood pressure sleeve around my arm tightening uncomfortably every half hour. I kept thinking "I've had the baby!" and started to wonder what she was like. All I could remember was a pair of blue eyes and a shock of fuzzy dark hair.
As the clock ticked slowly on, I contemplated my situation. I had never been a hospital in-patient before. Never had anything approaching major surgery. Never been inside an ICU. And - oh yes - had never given birth. And now I was a mother, apparently. Another first.
By morning, I was getting impatient to be with Rosie. I had been watching the clock since I had arrived and now I could hardly contain my impatience as they gave me a bed bath and started unhooking me from the various tubes and wires. I was missing Theo, but all I could think about was meeting my daughter.
"Any pain?" asked a nurse. "Yes," I said. She shoved me in the abdomen. Ouch.
Finally, they began wheeling me away. I was taken up to the eleventh floor and into a room where a woman and her husband and baby were already ensconced in one corner.
"Congratulations!" They said.
"You too!" I replied. And then I heard wheels approaching the door. They belonged to a mobile cot which was pushed over to my bedside. In the cot was a tiny, pink baby - our baby. For a moment I just marvelled at her. Then, despite, the pain in my abdomen, I leaned over and took her from the cot and into the bed with me. I just wanted her in my arms. I smelled her and gazed at her in wonder. This was our daughter. The feeling was indescribable.
Then, twenty minutes later, Theo arrived. We embraced and he joined me in my fascination with this tiny new person we had made. Our family. Now we are three.
Friday, 29 January 2010
thank heaven for little girls...
... and slings.
The sling my parents kindly bought us for Christmas has been our salvation so far, as Rosie isn't usually happy sleeping in her cot (especially not at night) but will sleep in a sling, which allows whoever is wearing her (we're doing it in shifts overnight) to get some kind of, well, not sleep exactly, but something approaching rest. Rosie starts, moves and chirrups a lot during sleep, which is very endearing, but having her tugging on my chest hair while burbling doesn't help me get much rest!
The other advantage of the sling is that Kate is able to breastfeed her while wearing it. Rosie has been a bit slow to take to the boob - she tends to give a couple of sucks then fall asleep! - so perseverance has been called for and I'm just in awe of Kate's patience and determination. Things are looking brighter on that front and she had a really good feed this morning. If she carries on putting on weight then hopefully the nurses will let Kate and Rosie come home on Sunday or Monday. Meanwhile I'm shuttling between home, hospital and various offices trying to get the requisite paperwork sorted, and resenting the time I'm having to spend away from my girls. Though I do need it. Despite the fact that there is a spare bed in the room at the Hospital I'm not allowed to use it, so for the past two nights I've been "sleeping" in a reclining chair. I'm also not allowed to use the bathroom there, so I've definitely needed to come home to shower , shave and siesta - a tired and smelly husband/father is no good to anyone!
The sling my parents kindly bought us for Christmas has been our salvation so far, as Rosie isn't usually happy sleeping in her cot (especially not at night) but will sleep in a sling, which allows whoever is wearing her (we're doing it in shifts overnight) to get some kind of, well, not sleep exactly, but something approaching rest. Rosie starts, moves and chirrups a lot during sleep, which is very endearing, but having her tugging on my chest hair while burbling doesn't help me get much rest!
The other advantage of the sling is that Kate is able to breastfeed her while wearing it. Rosie has been a bit slow to take to the boob - she tends to give a couple of sucks then fall asleep! - so perseverance has been called for and I'm just in awe of Kate's patience and determination. Things are looking brighter on that front and she had a really good feed this morning. If she carries on putting on weight then hopefully the nurses will let Kate and Rosie come home on Sunday or Monday. Meanwhile I'm shuttling between home, hospital and various offices trying to get the requisite paperwork sorted, and resenting the time I'm having to spend away from my girls. Though I do need it. Despite the fact that there is a spare bed in the room at the Hospital I'm not allowed to use it, so for the past two nights I've been "sleeping" in a reclining chair. I'm also not allowed to use the bathroom there, so I've definitely needed to come home to shower , shave and siesta - a tired and smelly husband/father is no good to anyone!
Tuesday, 26 January 2010
Rosie's first day
I woke up at 7.30 this morning. I hadn't really slept, I'd been so shocked and nervous and I felt faintly sick as a dragged myself into the shower. I hastily ate breakfast and then phoned around immediate family before jumping on a packed Metro up to Hospital La Paz.
After last night's experience of being told I couldn't go in at every turn I was fully psyched up for a good row with some nurses but I was hardly opposed - the receptionist told me the room number and I went straight in to find a happy, if slightly sore Kate cuddling our daughter Rosie.
Like me Kate hadn't really slept but she seemed happy enough. I was amazed at her resilience considering what she'd been through, and indeed she was up and moving about a bit by the end of the day. It felt so good for all three of us to be together, and we spent most of the day just sitting, talking quietly and taking it turns to hold her. She's such a miracle and I can't explain how I feel. This blog post is horrendously inadequate in that sense!
As she was over 3 weeks early she's quite small - just 2.3kgs - and has spent most of the day sleeping and making small snuffling noises. She was wheeled off to be checked over by pediatricians a couple of times, but they seem satisfied with her. Breastfeeding, however, has not been straightforward, though she seemed to be starting to get the hang of it and is being incredibly patient and persevering. I'm just in awe.
Kate and Rosie are sharing a room with a Spanish woman and her son, Martin, born by Caesarian on Sunday. She and her various visitors have been very helpful, explaining things to us and so on. We have been inundated with phone and messages from well-wishers, plus Rosie's first visitor - Cesar, bearing flowers, which was a very welcome surprise. So may people have phoned to offer any help we need, which has actually just added to my general feeling of "I don't know what I need! what should I be doing?" I'm off work for the week - what a great boss we have - but I don't really know what I should be doing apart from trying to anticipate Kate's comforts (hence tomorrow's shopping mission - big, comfy knickers a la Bridget Jones). Folks, as soon as we work out what we need, we'll let you know!!
Kate's sent me home - I did offer to stay and sleep in the chair, but she said I needed to sleep. She's right - god knows we won't be doing much of that in the months to come!
After last night's experience of being told I couldn't go in at every turn I was fully psyched up for a good row with some nurses but I was hardly opposed - the receptionist told me the room number and I went straight in to find a happy, if slightly sore Kate cuddling our daughter Rosie.
Like me Kate hadn't really slept but she seemed happy enough. I was amazed at her resilience considering what she'd been through, and indeed she was up and moving about a bit by the end of the day. It felt so good for all three of us to be together, and we spent most of the day just sitting, talking quietly and taking it turns to hold her. She's such a miracle and I can't explain how I feel. This blog post is horrendously inadequate in that sense!
As she was over 3 weeks early she's quite small - just 2.3kgs - and has spent most of the day sleeping and making small snuffling noises. She was wheeled off to be checked over by pediatricians a couple of times, but they seem satisfied with her. Breastfeeding, however, has not been straightforward, though she seemed to be starting to get the hang of it and is being incredibly patient and persevering. I'm just in awe.
Kate and Rosie are sharing a room with a Spanish woman and her son, Martin, born by Caesarian on Sunday. She and her various visitors have been very helpful, explaining things to us and so on. We have been inundated with phone and messages from well-wishers, plus Rosie's first visitor - Cesar, bearing flowers, which was a very welcome surprise. So may people have phoned to offer any help we need, which has actually just added to my general feeling of "I don't know what I need! what should I be doing?" I'm off work for the week - what a great boss we have - but I don't really know what I should be doing apart from trying to anticipate Kate's comforts (hence tomorrow's shopping mission - big, comfy knickers a la Bridget Jones). Folks, as soon as we work out what we need, we'll let you know!!
Kate's sent me home - I did offer to stay and sleep in the chair, but she said I needed to sleep. She's right - god knows we won't be doing much of that in the months to come!
Our daughter - by Theo
Our daughter is here. I can't believe it. I'm utterly shocked. Yo no creo. She's about a month early - we'd been expecting here on Feb 21st, but yet here she is. It's all so sudden. She's beautiful, and I feel angry and hurt that I can't be with her and Kate - the hospital has ordered me home.
Kate was out when I got back from work at 9.30pm, so I started to do some marking. She got back about 15 minutes later and by the wheezing sounds she was making it was clear something was wrong. She'd been having contractions, though she thought they might be Braxton Hicks contractions and not the beginning of actual labour. She went to the loo and I went to make her some tea, which she never got to drink. There was some blood. We did what we always do when we're in a situation in Madrid and we don't know what to do - we called Cesar. He ordered us to go to the hospital. We'd known that was the case but it helped us to have somebody say it out loud. I hastily packed bags, trying to anticipate everything - false alarm, long wait, tests or indeed long labour - and then helped Kate to the car.
We made it to La Paz just about - tricky trying to find the right exit off the M-30 - and into the Urgencias Maternales entrance of the Hospital. After a quick chat with a doctor I was sent to register Kate at the reception only to discover I wasn't then allowed back to where they were examining Kate, as it was women-only. I had an anxious wait in a drafty reception area for about 30 minutes before somebody came out to say they would be keeping Kate in the Hospital but I could ride up with her in the lift. I was then ushered through to see her, she seemed calm and relaxed, and that was when one of the doctors told me they were going to do a Caesarian as the baby was the wrong way round. I assumed at this point that they'd told Kate, but if they had they hadn't made it clear as she didn't seem aware of why I was told to give her a kiss and wait once we'd gone up a couple of floors. Once again I had another anxious wait in a non-descript hallway, laden down with bags and thoroughly uninformed.
Thankfully another expectant father, Fernando, arrived - his wife was being wheeled in for a Caesarian as well - at 40 weeks and after induction his son still was budging. I guess Kate and I should be glad that she didn't have to go through any of that. We chatted a bit and he helped explain things a bit to me.
We heard a cry and then later, a second. After what seemed an age a little baby girl - just over 2kgs - was wheeled out, all tightly bundled up. Little Rosie Ines. She was to be taken up to the nursery while Kate is being kept in Intensive Care overnight - a standard precaution. Kate was conscious - somewhat miraculously - and I got to talk to her; she seemed understandably dazed, but OK. Us fathers - clearly extraneous in the eyes of the medical staff - where told in no uncertain terms to go home, sleep and on no account return before 10am.
On the bloody dot you can bet.
Kate was out when I got back from work at 9.30pm, so I started to do some marking. She got back about 15 minutes later and by the wheezing sounds she was making it was clear something was wrong. She'd been having contractions, though she thought they might be Braxton Hicks contractions and not the beginning of actual labour. She went to the loo and I went to make her some tea, which she never got to drink. There was some blood. We did what we always do when we're in a situation in Madrid and we don't know what to do - we called Cesar. He ordered us to go to the hospital. We'd known that was the case but it helped us to have somebody say it out loud. I hastily packed bags, trying to anticipate everything - false alarm, long wait, tests or indeed long labour - and then helped Kate to the car.We made it to La Paz just about - tricky trying to find the right exit off the M-30 - and into the Urgencias Maternales entrance of the Hospital. After a quick chat with a doctor I was sent to register Kate at the reception only to discover I wasn't then allowed back to where they were examining Kate, as it was women-only. I had an anxious wait in a drafty reception area for about 30 minutes before somebody came out to say they would be keeping Kate in the Hospital but I could ride up with her in the lift. I was then ushered through to see her, she seemed calm and relaxed, and that was when one of the doctors told me they were going to do a Caesarian as the baby was the wrong way round. I assumed at this point that they'd told Kate, but if they had they hadn't made it clear as she didn't seem aware of why I was told to give her a kiss and wait once we'd gone up a couple of floors. Once again I had another anxious wait in a non-descript hallway, laden down with bags and thoroughly uninformed.
Thankfully another expectant father, Fernando, arrived - his wife was being wheeled in for a Caesarian as well - at 40 weeks and after induction his son still was budging. I guess Kate and I should be glad that she didn't have to go through any of that. We chatted a bit and he helped explain things a bit to me.
We heard a cry and then later, a second. After what seemed an age a little baby girl - just over 2kgs - was wheeled out, all tightly bundled up. Little Rosie Ines. She was to be taken up to the nursery while Kate is being kept in Intensive Care overnight - a standard precaution. Kate was conscious - somewhat miraculously - and I got to talk to her; she seemed understandably dazed, but OK. Us fathers - clearly extraneous in the eyes of the medical staff - where told in no uncertain terms to go home, sleep and on no account return before 10am.
On the bloody dot you can bet.
Monday, 16 November 2009
La Matrona by Kate
I must admit, I was a bit apprehensive about meeting a Spanish midwife for the first time, having heard and read mixed reports about them. The rest of the medical profession I've encountered since lowering myself into uncertain waters of the pre-natal system in Madrid have tended to be brisk, brusque and professional and not exactly brimming over with what you might describe as bedside manner.
So Maite was a pleasant surprise. Brisk and professional, yes. And undeniably, a tad brusque at times (she castigated Theo and me for not being better at speaking and understanding Spanish by now - everyone else we meet has been highly complementary on our emerging linguistic abilities). But - and it's an important but - she has a sense of humour. Plus she wasn't afraid to speak a bit of English to us, which was very endearing as we floundered about trying to find the right words to ask for information on the hitherto more obscure aspects of giving birth in Madrid.
Best of all, she made it clear she was very much in favour of natural, active birth - she told me sternly it would require a lot of preparation and isn't for the faint-hearted, but seemed satisfied when I assured her I was already doing the yoga and relaxation practice to get ready. When we asked about ante natal classes (called pre-natal classes here) she shrugged and said she wasn't sure how useful I would find them as she would be speaking Spanish very quickly and I probably wouldn't understand anything. But she seemed willing to let me give them a try, although Theo was disappointed to learn that most of the classes aren't open to husbands and partners.
The other thing she told us, which was also reassuring, was that Hospital La Paz - our assigned hospital - has a policy of minimal medical intervention during the birth process and suggested that all being well, I should be able to try my hand at doing it naturally without major unwanted interference from the obstetrics team. A far cry from the days when Giles Tremlett's wife gave birth in the same hospital, as recounted in his excellent book, Ghosts of Spain. That book was responsible for grave doubts on my part about the business of having a child in a Spanish public hospital. Still, assuming that Maite is right, we'll go ahead and take the La Paz option, keeping fingers crossed that all will be as she says it should.
So Maite was a pleasant surprise. Brisk and professional, yes. And undeniably, a tad brusque at times (she castigated Theo and me for not being better at speaking and understanding Spanish by now - everyone else we meet has been highly complementary on our emerging linguistic abilities). But - and it's an important but - she has a sense of humour. Plus she wasn't afraid to speak a bit of English to us, which was very endearing as we floundered about trying to find the right words to ask for information on the hitherto more obscure aspects of giving birth in Madrid.
Best of all, she made it clear she was very much in favour of natural, active birth - she told me sternly it would require a lot of preparation and isn't for the faint-hearted, but seemed satisfied when I assured her I was already doing the yoga and relaxation practice to get ready. When we asked about ante natal classes (called pre-natal classes here) she shrugged and said she wasn't sure how useful I would find them as she would be speaking Spanish very quickly and I probably wouldn't understand anything. But she seemed willing to let me give them a try, although Theo was disappointed to learn that most of the classes aren't open to husbands and partners.
The other thing she told us, which was also reassuring, was that Hospital La Paz - our assigned hospital - has a policy of minimal medical intervention during the birth process and suggested that all being well, I should be able to try my hand at doing it naturally without major unwanted interference from the obstetrics team. A far cry from the days when Giles Tremlett's wife gave birth in the same hospital, as recounted in his excellent book, Ghosts of Spain. That book was responsible for grave doubts on my part about the business of having a child in a Spanish public hospital. Still, assuming that Maite is right, we'll go ahead and take the La Paz option, keeping fingers crossed that all will be as she says it should.
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