By Heather O.
Or so DH tells me. I don’t remember much–pain and labor will do that, I suppose. But here is what I do remember, and I’ll share why I just have to pat myself on the back for being so delightful.
To my knowledge, the only person I cussed at the entire time during labor was my husband. He claims I also cussed out an IV pole that got tangled with all of my various drips as I was trying to drag it to the bathroom, and that my language was indeed colorful. Good thing Little Sister can’t talk yet.
When I was throwing up from the epidural, and the nurse, despite my insistance that I didn’t want it, put a cold washcloth on my head, I totally refrained from ripping it off of my head and hucking it across the room. Instead, I delicately told her the smell of it was making me retch even more, and dropped it on the floor. (I want to say, however, that in every other aspect my nurse was excellent. I’m totally sending her a pizza tomorrow.)
After my first night with Little Sister, recovering from both labor and some significant blood loss from my subsequent uterine bleed, and functioning on about 3 hours of sleep in about 40 hours, I did not shout at the top of my voice ‘GO AWAY’ when the “chaplain” of the floor came in “just to visit”. I did, however, stare at her with a wide, possibly demonic expression nonstop and answered her insipid questions with monosyllabic words, and allowing long silences. She must have been sufficiently spooked, because she left in a hurry.
After she left, but neglected to close my room door, which meant I heard every laugh, cry, chatter, clacking of shoes and clipboards that was occurring on the floor, I also refrained from pounding my head against my bed rail screaming, “For the love of colostrum SHUT THE DAMN DOOR!” Instead I just imagined all kinds of evil things happening to that chaplain.
When the crowd of medical students came in moments later with the attending doctor to check vitals on my finally sleeping baby, I did not tell them to get their white coated little heinies out of my room. When the attending announced that she had to check my baby, however, I did give her an extremely level and coherent stare and said, “You wake my baby, I will kill you.” Oh yes, I did.
Clearly being smarter than the rest of the hospital staff and sensing danger when she sees it, she lowered her voice, put down the thermometer, and spoke in soothing tones to calm the savage beast. She also managed to accomplish what every other nurse and doctor had hitherto failed to do: she checked my baby without waking her up. I guess that’s why they pay her the big bucks. She also closed the door on her way out. What a gal.
So you can see why I’m totally positive that the hospital staff was sorry to see us go. I’m truly the model patient. Just ask the chaplain.
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