I just realized that I never finished that story. Sadly, it’s a “Chapter 1″ without any subsequent chapters. Just for some closure:

Unknown White Male made his way back to the ER quite a few more times and I was always his nurse. In fact, I started seeing him in the triage line and I would tell the triage nurse, “It’s OK. I’ll take him. We have a thing going.” One night, he was even filthier than usual. Filthier than any human I have ever encountered – and I have encountered filth unimaginable. Another first-year doctor had decided they wanted to “work him up” for whatever nonsense was on his differential diagnosis and they wanted me to draw blood and put in an IV. I couldn’t find his skin beneath the caked filth, let alone a vein, and since it was a slow night, I decided it would be funny/horrible/insane to try and give him a shower.

Elmhurst, being the awesome inner city hospital it is, has one patient shower located in a hall closet. No bathroom, no real ante-room for getting changed. Just a closet in the middle of a busy hallway in the MIDDLE of the ER. So if you come to the ER and you need a shower, you best be ready to expose your genitals to the greater Queens community. Unknown White Male was more than ready.

At this point in our relationship, he was generally cooperative for me and he happily stripped down. I can’t even begin to describe the things that dropped out of his clothes as he removed his many layers. I wrapped him in a bed sheet (again, inner city ER = no towels! Really? No towels!?) and we shuffled down the hallway to the shower – me holding the train to his bed sheet gown. I unraveled him from the sheet and coaxed him into the shower – at which point he enthusiastically turned on the water and started a constant stream of loud, aggressive garbling. I handed him a dixie cup full of antibacterial hand soap (no towels, no shampoo, no private shower. . . the list is endless) and I dumped another cup of soap over his head. He enthusiastically started scrubbing.

MS. CRAZY WANTS ME TO SHOWER! WASHING MY DICK! YOU WANT ME TO WASH MY DICK MY HAIR MY SCROTUM MY BALLS MY BALLS. MS. CRAZY? MS. CRAZY? FUCKING DOCTORS FROM MT. SINAI DONT FUCKING KNOW WHAT THE FUCK THEY . . . MORE SHAMPOO! MORE SHAMPOO. I’LL WASH MY BALLS MS. CRAZY! I’LL WASH MY BALLS! MY ANUS NEEDS WASHING! SHOULD I WASH MY ANUS? MS. CRAZY!?

So there I am, Ms. Crazy, standing at the door, holding up a sheet so that the rest of the ER can’t really see what is going on inside the shower closet. “Yes. Wash your balls. Yes. Wash your anus. Ok. Almost done . . . . ” He continued to cooperate and the conversation was magical, really. The sheet was filthy and soaked at this point, so I quickly had another nurse stand there to guard him while I ran to get a clean sheet. By the time I got back, he had bolted out of the shower closet and was ambling down the hallway, dragging the filthy sheet around his ankles. Though I wrangled him pretty quickly, the entire ER got a good look at his new sparkly clean balls and anus.

I’ll admit: I had a real thing for Unknown White Male. Beneath his frothy, irrational screaming, he was actually kind of sweet and cooperative. He couldn’t even remember his own name (hence the ‘Unknown White Male’), but he eventually started lighting up when he saw me and would happily exclaim, “Hey Ms. Crazy! It’s you! Ms. Crazy!” It was heartwarming. Eventually, he disappeared – moved on to another ER, another Burrough perhaps. I like to think his family found him and cleaned him up and put him on the right medication. Somewhere, he is well-dressed and clean-shaven – maybe he is back to practicing medicine . . . maybe he really was a doctor like he always screamed. I don’t doubt the depths to which a person can tumble, if given the right set of horrible circumstances.

I know the story is, in reality, a sad one – but so is every story I have from the ER. Had I not been able to find funny, heartwarming moments along the way, I would have had to be committed. I almost had to be committed anyway.

Also, when people ask me about how gross it must be to clean my daughter’s cloth diapers, I just smile and think back to the hundreds of old people diarrhea diapers I have wrestled with and the cruddy old man foreskins I have had to scrub clean. The fact that my daughter’s diapers are the dirtiest thing I encounter on a day to day basis is a miracle.

So, right. Slowly remodeling the blog. Crazy, filthy old man. Ball scrubbing. Dirty diapers. Back to the beginning: Someday I will learn how to make my own beautiful website. Someday. Once I have finished the 4,034 other things on my to-do list. And everything will get done in the one-hour a day I have while Elsa naps.

I have a pretty genius friend whose talents I covet over at his website: The Cook Blog. Someday I hope my blog will be that aesthetically pleasing. In any event, while I am still wallowing around using the pre-made wordpress templates, I will just do what I can – and today, that means rewriting my “About” page.

For posterity’s sake, I will save my old “About” page here. For the last time:

________________________________________________________________________

[UPDATE: March 2010]

I gave birth to a small human. Her name is Elsa. I’m her mom and John is her dad – forever. So far, so good.

Family portrait with yelling

{UPDATE: October 2009]

It’s been an awfully long time. A lot has changed, but an attempt will be made to resurrect the blog. I can’t believe that it has been almost two years. TWO YEARS! What’s different now?

1. I left my job in the ER back in July so I could move to CT with the man and be near family.
2. The man got me all pregnant and stuff.
3. While I wait for this baby to make it’s debut (in February), I work random per diem nursing jobs. Mostly, I think about being pregnant and meeting this creature that the man and I made.

As I was once compelled to write about my ER adventures, I am now compelled to write about all this pregnancy/baby stuff. Same old infrequent posting.

[UPDATE: January 2008]

Closing in on my six month anniversary as a nurse. Considering three of those months were spent in orientation, it feels almost absurd that I’ve only been practicing for two and a half months.

{UPDATE : August 2007}

I’m actually a nurse now and practicing all this new nursing stuff in the Emergency Department where I have worked for the past year. I managed to convince them to hire me, I guess. It’s been over a month and I’m still totally floored when I see “RN” after my name.

I’m here to write about why nursing is a damn hard job. Here to hopefully chronicle my ascent from the land of the bumbling new nurse to the ranks of the competent.

{Original Blog About}

I live in a fine outer borough with a very fine partner. A year ago, I would have ranted on about how much I hate the city. Now, I’m content. Not in love with the place, but content.

I have 5 more months until I graduate with my BSN. A great city hospital [we'll call it Big City Hospital] is paying for my last year of nursing school in return for 16 months of service when I graduate.

As for my non-nursing self:
I exaggerate – often.
I want to live on a farm someday and have a lot of animal friends.
I have a hard time seeing myself as an adult.
I love the state of Ohio.
I would like to drive across the United States at least 10 more times.
I did a triathlon once and would like to do another someday.
And I cannot tolerate spiders in any way. Ever.

My nostalgia for the morning:

If I could have Elsa as a newborn again – just for one day . . .

I take off my shirt, leave her in just a diaper and we crawl into bed together. I wake only enough to nurse her and occassionally change her diaper. We sleep soundly for HOURS (as in more than 2 at a time like last night). No Laundry. No dishes. No blog. No email. No Doodle Jump. Just sleep. It’s glorious!

And you were amazing. Better than any almost-seven month old could possible be. You made it through the whole day, taking all the attention in stride. I imagine the day was like a constant fun house of faces passing before you – squealing and calling your name – distorted and wild. New sounds and textures and tastes. A bevy of new, delicious, filthy chew toys: the table, a napkin, your high chair straps. You handled it better than your mom and dad, who require moments of quiet and calm amid such chaos.

When we got in the car to go home, you were asleep in seconds.

Only tonight, did you show the effects of such a crazy day. Cranky and wild, I brought you to our nursing chair for some quiet nursing time- which almost never fails to settle both of our spirits. But tonight, you would have none of it. At first, I tried to nurse you while I played with your dad’s new iTouch, but you kept trying to sit up, throwing your weight around in an effort to destroy any nearby electronics. I put down the distraction and focused on you, watching you thrashing from side to side, hitting me, yelling – a tiny Baptist preacher in my arms.

Unable to help you, the only thing I could do was watch and wait. I let you blow off steam and finally . . . slowly . . . your head started to rest on my chest. At first, only for a few seconds before you flung yourself backwards for another round of lunacy. Finally, you rested your head down on my bare chest and your breathing slowed. Your hands relaxed. I too closed my eyes and marveled at how big you are. How when you lie on my chest, your body stretches the length of my torso and your knees rest on the rocking chair. I thought about the unfathomable future when you will be a toddler and then a child and then a teenager . . . And I will think back to when you really needed me. Needed my body to fall asleep. . . my bare skin. And how that was the nicest time – the nicest memory I have.

Also. Introducing Solids. Elsa thinks it is awesome. I think it is the worst. Why? Her sweet, benign little breastfed baby poops are now gross human poops. Sick old man poops to accompany her sick old man farts.

And Solid food + Baby = Less fun cloth diapering. WAY less fun. We have a diaper sprayer (like a shower hose connected to our toilet), but so far I haven’t figured out a way to spray off the diapers without spraying the entire bathroom. We’re working on it.

Superfluous picture of Elsa learning to crawl

So I decided I wanted to have Elsa evaluated for a tongue-tie by someone who was not going to tell me that my toxic womb was the cause of all our problems. I called the guy (Cliff O’Callahan, M.D. in Middletown, CT) and requested an appointment, but they were booked for the next two weeks. I took what I could get, hung up the phone, and sobbed that we would have to wait so long – two weeks was an eternity with my little, squealing Razorblade. So we waited. And we nursed. And it hurt. We had reached a sort of status quo that I could only tolerate knowing that there was a possible solution on the horizon.

We got to Dr. O’Callahan’s office and he and a medical student evaluated Elsa while she was nursing, exclaiming that she actually had a great latch. “Ha!” I wanted to say to all those LC’s who had repeatedly chanted the mantra of, “If you have pain, there is a problem with the latch.” He was probably the nicest, most compassionate doctor I have ever met – a great listener (which is, sadly, SO rare in medicine), very observant, and thoughtful. He interviewed me about our problems and then examined inside Elsa’s mouth. He clearly explained the anatomy and physiology of nursing and demonstrated why a baby with a tongue-tie may have problems nursing. Briefly, a tongue-tie occurs when the little piece of skin (the frenulum) below your tongue tethers your tongue to the bottom of your mouth too tightly, affecting the tongue’s mobility. For a more detailed explanation, try this website. He also explained that Elsa’s tongue-tie was posterior (in the back) and not very visibly obvious. In fact, in another baby, it might not have caused any problems at all. The only real diagnostic criteria he could use was that, after excluding all other possibile causes, I was still in pain. There were a few other clues, including: Elsa’s frustration at the breast, angry wrestling matches with my nipples and my mastitis and recurrent plugged ducts (damn you crazy LC for being right!).

He offered to do the procedure, but told me that it was entirely my decision. He also explained that he is a salaried faculty member at the hospital and does not earn any extra money by doing the clipping procedure. I really appreciated this bit of information, because so many doctors get paid per procedure – thus giving them a financial incentive to do more procedures. I had sort of hoped he would say, “Oh yes – she has an obvious tongue-tie and must have this procedure done immediately.” Instead he said, “From what you have told me, it seems she probably has a tongue-tie. Now you must decide if we are going to do this procedure.”

I cried (yes, more crying). I told him that I felt guilty subjecting her to a painful procedure just because I was in pain. He explained that breastfeeding was the absolute best thing I can do for her and, if I am in persistent pain, I will probably end up weaning her prematurely. The tongue clipping was, in fact, the best thing for her because it would increase the amount of time that we breastfeed and, on top of that, would give her a happier mom. He insisted that I not feel guilty and told me that he would give me as much time as I needed to decide, whether it be minutes or days.

Oh Moooom. Please don't cut my tongue! I promise to put my razorblades away.

Knowing that I really couldn’t continue with the current situation, I asked him to do the procedure. The whole thing was so benign – I wish I hadn’t allowed myself to wait as long as I did. He brought us into the procedure room and had me hold her while she sucked a sugar solution off my finger (which made her seem a little drunk). He set up a sterile tray of instruments:

The two instruments used for the procedure

Then he swaddled Elsa in a blanket, which actually seemed to be the part she hated the most. He encourage me to stay in the room and I held her legs, which she was trying to flail out of her restraints. He opened her mouth with the bottom instrument from the picture above and slid her frenulum into the little slit in the instrument. He took the scissors and quickly snipped the skin. In an instant, he was already holding her upright in his arms and cooing to her while he held a little piece of gauze under her tongue. The moment he was holding her, she stopped crying and, within a minute, he took the piece of gauze away and showed me that there were only two small drops of blood. Start to finish, the whole thing took about 5 minutes. He handed her back to me and encouraged me to nurse her as soon as possible, which I did immediately once we got back to the exam room.

Heeeey! That wasn't so bad! And my tongue is so loose now - Look!

The doctor gave me me some post-procedure instructions and told me to email or call within a week to let him know the outcome. For a few days after the procedure, I swiped a clean finger under her tongue after every nursing, to help prevent scar tissue from forming. I would love to say that nursing improved immediately with that first nursing, but it didn’t. However, within 24 hours, my pain was down from an 8/10 to a 5/10. Within a week, I was down to a 2/10 – which was wonderous.

The incredible part of the story is: I went back to the Mother’s Group again! I was desperate for company and thought, perhaps, I could learn to like these women. The LC was there and briefly celebrated that Elsa had had her tongue clipped. Then, she observed another nursing session and gravely pronounced, “My God! She needs her tongue clipped again! She is still not emptying your breast! Did he clip her upper lip as well!? NO!? Well, if I had gone with you, I would have insisted he clip her upper lip as well. You MUST call him today and schedule another clipping.”

Seriously? No “Good job!”? No, “Finally, your troubles are over!”? Just and endless life of tongue clippings? It was baffling how intensely she preached an all-natural, chemical-free, raw foods only lifestyle while at the same time, she was totally obsessed with this invasive medical procedure. The only explanation was that she believes tongue-ties are a result of our toxic wombs – thus justifying the medical intervention necessary for returning us to our frenulum-free, natural state. I could literally go on for days about this woman and her many contradictions and the offensiveness of her self-righteousness.

In any event, I politely sat through the rest of the meeting, listening to how every woman in the group was transitioning to an entirely raw foods diet. The one woman who had been cautiously reapproaching tree nuts had come to her senses and was now avoiding all nuts AND watermelon. Another woman was increasing her babywearing time to 15 hours a day so that she could experience more connectedness with little Diwali Rain-Feather. I left furious and vowing never to return – and I didn’t. I was, however, added to their email listserv before I went to my last meeting. The women email daily about the most incredible self-righteous nonsense you could possibly imagine and it provides me with endless hours of entertainment.

My whole experience breastfeeding has inspired me to become a lactation consultant – something I will probably write about in the future as it becomes more of a reality. Today, I’m very happy to say that breastfeeding is a breeze. It’s not perfect (maybe she did need another clipping afterall . . . oy.) and her little tongue still feels a little like sandpaper occassionally. But we have gotten to a wonderful place where I love breastfeeding her and will be able to do it as long as we both want. She is healthy, happy, and huge (19lbs at 6 months).

So that is my Epic Lactation Story. I’ll just close with one of my most favorite things in the world: “Breastfeeding in the Land of Ghenghis Khan”

The mother’s group broke up and finally, John arrived for our appointment. The LC interviewed us regarding the birth and our breastfeeding problems and then observed a feeding. She put on a glove and felt around in Elsa’s mouth, testing her sucking abilities and looking at her tongue. So far, everything she did seemed reasonable. She had me lie down on a daybed in her office and showed me how to nurse both lying down on my side and lying on my back with Elsa sprawled across my chest, faced down on my boobs. The nursing session was one of the least painful I had experienced thus far and Elsa nursed for longer than she ever had (probably about 15 minutes). This woman was everything we had hoped for – Our Savior!

After Elsa finished nursing, she sat us down and very sincerely asked us about our diet. And we sheepishly explained that we knew we were not eating very healthy. Bagels. Pizza. Ice cream. Chicken wings. . . But we try and eat a vegetable at every meal! Kale! We eat kale! She nodded knowingly. She scribbled furiously on a pad of paper. She told us we should know better (and we should). At some point, I made an off-hand comment about Elsa’s dry skin and how I had put Johnson’s baby oil on her little, cracked feet. She stared at me.

“Why would you do that?”

“Um. Because her feet were really dry and cracked?”

“No. I mean WHY would you do that to your child!? You’re poisoning her.”

“Um. Ok. Sorry?”

….. Under normal circumstances, this would have been unnaceptable – but these were desperate times.

I still have her list of prescriptions: A morning smoothie of: coconut water, coconut milk kefir, berries and cherries, raw almond butter, coconut oil, flax or chia seeds, vega protein powder, green food powder, and blackstrap mollasses. We looked at the ingredient list baffled, but resigned to follow her instructions. She scribbled some vegetable juice recipes and about 6 different supplements (magnesium, vitamin D, essential fatty acids), homeopathic remedies (arnica), and Bach flowers. She made me a mixture of Bach flowers to take home and take as frequently as I needed. I was told they would cure my hopelessness and fear of failure – which sounded great! She insisted I call a specific chiropractor in the morning to have both myself and Elsa adjusted and gave me the number of a doctor who would clip Elsa’s posterior tongue tie.

Ah the tongue tie. One LC in the Children’s Hospital had commented that she though Elsa might have a posterior tongue tie. I mentioned this to her pediatrician and he glanced in her mouth and said, “I haven’t seen one of those in 20 years! She definitely doesn’t have a tongue-tie. Breastfeeding can be painful and you just have to grin and bear it.” So when this new LC told us Elsa definitively had a posterior tongue-tie, we were somewhat skeptical because of our pediatrician. Plus, by the end of the appointment, we had garnered enough information about this woman to realize she was an extremist. She lectured us that tongue-ties are a result of our toxic wombs and nutritional deficiencies and that, even after the initial clipping, we might need to have two or three re-clippings done. Ya know – becuase my womb was probably extra toxic.

For karma’s sake, I have to explain that she was really very nice to us – extreme and crazy but nice. By the end of the appointment, I was staring at Elsa and crying again – blubbering, “I just don’t know why I’m doing this. My mother-in-law sees me in so much pain and tells me just to give her a bottle – like it is so easy. But I can’t . . . and I don’t know why. Why am I doing this!? This is so stupid.”

She got down on one knee and wrapped her arms around me and cooed, “It’s okay. You are doing an amazing job.” She pointed to Elsa and said, “Look at your beautiful baby. She is healthy and happy and you are the reason why. She is thriving and, even though you are in pain right now, you are doing the absolute best thing for both of you. We are going to fix this. Your baby is beautiful and healthy. You’re baby is beautiful and healthy . . .” I sobbed in her arms while she murmured this to me. And, despite all of her lunacy and talk of toxins and her minions of brainwashed allergy moms – that moment has really stuck with me above everything else. I looked at Elsa through new eyes and, for the first time, saw that she was healthy and that I was doing the best thing for both of us.

Healthy. Happy. Cross-eyed. Awesome.

We left her office ready to follow her advice out of desperation – but I was not ready to accept this tongue-tie business just yet. I will drink smoothies at her insistence, but I will not CUT my babies tongue on her advice alone. We headed to Whole Foods and spent over $100 on mysterious bottles and vials and powders. We headed home where I was totally unable to replicate the nursing success I had in her office. But we drank our smoothies (granted our own modified version with only about 1/2 the ingredients she had prescribed) and I took my arnica and Bach flowers for hopelessness. I researched tongue-ties relentlessly and was unable to find any definitive source of information that told me, “Yes, your daughter is tongue-tied.” I made an appointment with the chiropractor and postponed the call to the tongue-tie doctor.

For about a week, things improved very slightly. Elsa’s poop was back to normal and she seemed somewhat more awake during the day. I knew she was getting enough milk because she was peeing/pooing and her weight checks at the pediatrician were always above average. Whether or not I was in excruciating pain, she was thriving. The chiropractor was actually a really wonderful woman and an ‘adjustment’ on a baby is really just a series of very gentle massages to their neck, upper back, and cheeks – no cracking or snapping like you think of with adult chiroprachty. Elsa would always sleep through the appointments, though the adjustments did have the curious effect of making her poop explosively during the appointment. For a day or two after seeing the chiropractor, breastfeeding would seem to improve. I got myself adjusted as well (with some major cracking!) and that was actually wonderful because my shoulders and back were so contorted from all the nursing Smackdowns.

The LC or her assistant called me daily – which was both disconcerting and encouraging. I was afraid of her and all her declarations of toxic poisoning, but it felt nice to have someone that seemed to care intensely about my breastfeeding (though also somewhat disconcerting).

I came down with mastitis one night (intense pain in my breast + high fever) after a number of days with plugged ducts. When I called the LC for help, she informed me that: 1) I had mastitis because of Elsa’s tongue-tie and, 2) I should NEVER microwave my food because I will be poisoning my whole family. Great. Thanks. Let me go cook a gluten-free, gourmet meal while my breast rots off my body.

She prescribed castor oil compresses and told me to continue with the arnica. I went to my midwife and got a prescription for antibiotics, which I held off on taking, knowing I wanted to avoid antibiotic therapy just yet. Thankfully, the infection cleared up on its own, but not before I revisited the idea that maybe Elsa was tongue-tied. At this point, it had been over three weeks and, though things had improved slightly, it became obvious that I was not going to be able to continue breastfeeding her with this level of pain and recurrent mastitis. Something was still wrong.

I researched as much as I could and finally called the doctor whose number she had given me.

Continued in, Lactation Stories: The Tongue-Tie

So, I was in excruciating pain every time Elsa nursed and my mood was deteriorating quickly. I started to DREAD night times, especially. Getting up every two hours with a newborn is exhausting, but getting up with a newborn every two hours and experiencing WWF Breastfeeding Smackdown – that made it unbearable. She would struggle and cry and, when she did latch, I would see stars as her razorblades slid back and forth across my nipples. As 5pm rolled around, I would get more and more depressed as night time loomed closer.

The lactation consultant (LC) at the hospital where I birthed gave me the number of another LC out in the community. After 13 days of miserably nursing Elsa at home, I finally admitted that things were not getting better as I had been told they would and we called the number. I called and explained our problems: excruciating pain, very sleepy baby, watery orange poop, generalized sense of misery and failure. She sounded very concerned and told us she could make room for us that evening at 6pm – GREAT! She also explained why it was so important for us to see her ASAP: “Your baby is nursing so ineffectively that she no longer has enough calories to sustain herself and stay awake. She is conserving her energy by sleeping.” I looked down at my little hibernating, starving baby and cried (for the 30th time that day).

Busy hibernating and starving.

Prior to our appointment, she was hosting a “mother’s group” of her clients and she invited me to attend. I showed up two hours before our appointment (minus John) and walked into a room of about 5 moms and their babies/toddlers and one middle-aged, hippyish woman who I determined was the lactation consultant. I lugged Elsa in her car seat over to a corner of the room and settled in on the floor. The LC asked that everyone introduce themselves since there was someone new in the group (me) and the women started going around the room:

“I’m Sarah and [pointing to her baby] this is Diwali. We babywear, co-sleep, cloth diaper, exclusively breastfeed [of course! chuckles all around], and we are tree nut/soy/gluten/dairy free!”

“I’m Amy and this is Sunshine and we cloth diaper, co-sleep, babywear, breastfeed, and we TOO are allergic to gluten/soy/tree nut/dairy [knowing glances all around the room]!”

“I’m Kathy, this is Farsi and over there is my little Lotus. We cloth diaper, bed-share, babywear, don’t vaccinate, don’t circumcise, and, while we are gluten/soy/dairy-free, we are starting to approach tree nuts again with some trepidation [chuckles and murmurs of agreement]“

“Um. I’m Georgia. This is Elsa . . . she is 13 days old. Um. . . We cloth diaper?”

At this point, my hackles were up and I knew I was probably in the wrong place. But I was scared and desperate for advice and I was happy to be surrounded by other moms for the first time. . . even other moms who made me want to tear my hair out. I thought to myself, “What is with all these allergies?” I took note of the self-righteous, weird, parenting identity politics – but honestly, I was just happy to be out of the house and anxious for someone to address our breastfeeding woes.

At some point during the ‘mother’s group’ – which was really just a meeting for all these women to talk about their food allergies and unbalanced energy chakras – someone mentioned the ills of carrying babies around in car seats. At this point, Elsa was in my arms, but everyone glanced nervously at my car seat like it was liable to start roving around the room, tearing their children limb from limb. The mother looked at me: “Oh! No offense! It’s just that I see women with their babies in those seats and I just think, ‘Why don’t you hold your baby!?’” I mumbled something about, “It’s February and 24 degrees outside. It just seemed like the easiest, warmest way to transport her.” Then the conversation thankfully shifted back to energy healing and attachment parenting.

So, basically, the mother’s group was weird. And I felt anxious about this woman and her seeming ability to give everyone around her food allergies . . . but, again, I was desperate.

The mother’s group broke up and finally it was time for our appointment – time for someone to fix us!

Continued in, Lactation Stories: Poisoning my Family

Elsa circa 13 days old.

I couldn’t figure out why she was always wet, so I blamed the diaper cover. I felt like an ass when I realized that a diaper cover was, indeed, supposed to cover the diaper.

I got a ParaGard IUD yesterday. It wasn’t that bad. I’m happy I did it.

The Long Story:

About 3 years ago, I was working night-shift in the ER, and, during the day, I was either sleeping or floating about in a fog waiting for the next night-shift to kick my ass. I found it simply too arduous to refill my prescription for birth control and then actually go to the pharmacy and fill that prescription. That would have required my turning off Saved By the Bell and removing myself from the couch – which usually didn’t seem like a posibility. I can’t imagine a life like that now – a life where I could sleep 8 hours uninterrupted and then watch TV until my brain exploded.

So I was too disorganized to get more birth control. And I said to myself, “Hey – this is a good thing! I’ve been on hormones for 8 years – I think my body needs a break.” So I stopped taking birth control while failing to realize that stopping your birth control is a great way to get pregnant. I’m a registered nurse, by the way. I completed my college senior thesis by teaching high school sex education. I KNOW BETTER.

So I got pregnant. And we were not ready. And I had a very non-traumatic, first-trimester abortion – which is a decision I have never regretted and I only specify ‘first-trimester’ for the story. I am pro-choice for all women at all stages of pregnancy – no matter how uncomfortable later term abortion might make me feel. And thank you to all the women and abortion doctors who fought and sometimes died so that I would have the RIGHT to make that decision. Sorry for that interlude. I couldn’t help myself.

I went back on birth control for a few months after the abortion but I also continued working night-shift. Soon life got the better of me and I went through the same series of mishaps and dysfunction that stopped me from taking birth control the first time. And lo and behold: Sex – Birth control = more babies! Not even the morning-after-pill or a bout of swine flu could stop this little one from making her way into the universe. About a year after my abortion, we found ourselves expecting. Again. I’m sure I will get a lot of eye rolls and judgement on this one – but I have zero qualms or regrets about the choices I’ve made. Bring on the judgement.

So after Elsa was born, I became better acquainted with the realities of vagina stretching, nipple screaming and general baby-having. She is the absolute best, most wonderful thing in my life but I knew I could not/would not have another baby anytime soon. But I’m breastfeeding exclusively – that should do the trick for now, right? Wrong. I got my period back when Elsa was about 11 weeks old. Awesome. And then it kept on coming back every month, as if I were not sustaining another life on my breastmilk alone. As if I were a single girl, out on the town, menstruating like a young lady and not a giant, walking udder. As if I had time for tampons!

John and I decided we needed a better form of birth control than just closing our eyes and willing his sperm to die. I had always been wary of IUD’s because they seemed alien and dangerous. We don’t even understand how or why they work! But then I had a 9lb. baby come out of my vagina and I became much less afraid of anything that did not involve 9lb babies coming out of my vagina. A small tangent: ever since having Elsa, my anxieties and my phobias (specifically my paralyzing arachnaphobia) seem to have diminished slighty. I don’t know if I am still in some sort of postpartum shock or if, perhaps, this will be a permanent change – which would be nice.

Anyway, being the most effective method of birth control next to abstinence, the IUD seemed like my best bet for preventing Irish twins (my worst nightmare). Though the progesterone in birth control pills used for breastfeeding women has not been found to harm the baby, I just felt like Elsa and I would both do better without any horomonal intervention. Plus, I have already proven myself too incompetent to take the pill. Which is why I chose to get the non-hormonal ParaGard IUD (as opposed to the Mirena which is an IUD with hormones). As far as I can tell, women with already heavy periods choose the Mirena because the hormones can lighten your flow, or at least not make it any heavier. The ParaGard, on the other hand, seems to often increase your bleeding/cramps. Seeing as I have a very tame period in the first place, I’m not afraid. Hopefully, I will not regret that statement.

I was unnecessarily terrified of the procedure. One of my girlfriends said the insertion was the worst pain she had ever felt and that she screamed. I took this information with a grain of salt and the knowledge that she had not stretched her vagina around a baby’s head. Sorry for so many vagina stretching references! In my experience, anticipating pain is much worse than actually experiencing pain. At the dentist, I never remember the parts that hurt, but I always remember the paralyzing anxiety I feel that something might hurt.

I took 800mg. Motrin before the appointment and, luckily, I had my period for the procedure. Apparantly, your cervix is slightly open during your period and that makes the IUD insertion easier and less painful. For anyone interested in the details of the procedure: My midwife first inserted the speculum and swabbed my cervix with iodine. She told me to expect a “pinch and two cramps.” Then she inserted a tool (a ‘tenaculum’) to clamp onto my cervix and open it just enough to insert the IUD. That was the ‘pinch’ and it was pretty painful, but very brief and forgettable. Then, she inserted the IUD, which took just a few moments. To be honest, I barely felt the cramps she told me to anticipate; I just felt a generalized warmth and tightening in my pelvis. After the IUD was placed, she observed me for bleeding for a few minutes. My cervix did, in fact, continue bleeding, so she applied a little silver nitrate to stop the bleeding. Then she took out the speculum and the whole thing was done – about 15 minutes in total and really only one painful pinch to speak of.

I thought I would be laid up for a couple days with cramps, but I felt great the next day. I didn’t need any Motrin after my initial dose and I went to yoga the next day. The only unanticipated problem I have is this: I am acutely aware of the IUD in my body. I don’t feel it at all physically, but I can’t stop thinking about it inside me. I have an irrational fear that the little T-shaped alien is going to break free from my uterus and travel throughout my abdominal cavity, destroying any organ in it’s path. I even took it easy during yoga because I was nervous that all the contortions would somehow anger my uterus into expelling the device.

So, on the whole, I say Go Team IUD.