Lights, Jaundice...Hospital

After cleaning Brock up after being born, we quickly realized that his entire face was bruised.  The bruise went from the top of his head, all along the left side of his face and made him look like he wasn't breathing.  After a few of the nurses had heart attacks, the staff finally made him a sign that read "My Face is Bruised" so the next shift wouldn't think poor Brock was dying.

We spent our two nights in the hospital to recover from dropping the ten pound bowling ball from within.  I never have had such a difficult time recovering from a birth.  The nurses said it was because he was my fourth child, but whatever it is, it has been a difficult recovery.

There is absolutely nothing like having a baby.  Within an instant you go from pain to joy, pregnant to not pregnant, a mother of three to a mother of four...and so on.  Your life changes forever, you begin a new love that didn't exist just moments before, your focus moves from your swollen ankles to the noises the baby just made.

There is a new name on your lips, new fears, new joys and a new love so deep, you can't keep your eyes of the baby for even a moment.



We left the hospital on Friday with an appointment with the home health care nurse scheduled for Saturday at 2:30.  We had a house showing on Saturday at 1:30 so after my family and mom scoured the house for all that resembled dust or clutter, the nurse descended on our home.  She started the normal questioning and weighed Brock and then broke out the heel-pricker thing and the blood-holder vile.  Kill me.

A test that should have taken mere minutes ended up taking about 40 minutes of complete and utter torture.  I was within seconds of telling her to STOP THE FREAKING TEST AND GET OUT!! But refrained.  After all of poor Brock's blood was scraped and squeezed from his little foot, Jim, my mom and the kids went to get my van and do some grocery shopping.

We had another house showing at 4:30, and after the people left I fell asleep on the couch with Brock.  As I woke up I could faintly hear the phone ringing and answered it.  Booming on the other end of the line was the home health care nurse, "When I hang up the phone the doctor is going to call you...ANSWER THE PHONE...WE HAVE BEEN TRYING TO REACH YOU FOR 40 MINUTES!!!" oops!! I forgot I shut the ringer off and hey I am a new mom, I was asleep. 

"Um, hi, this is Dr. Your-Kid-is-Sick, we have been trying to reach you and when you are waiting for blood test results you should really answer the phone...anyway, Brock needs to be put back in the hospital.  His biliruben test came back 17 and 20 is where we start to see brain damage so you need to go to the hospital because we are admitting him." HUN? What the?  Thank gosh I didn't kick the nurse out. I need Jim. I packed a bag for Jim and I, and called him to come home.


"Hey Hun, the doctor just called and they want to admit Brock into the hospital for the jaundice."  I continued to explain to him what the doctor said and he was home in a few minutes.  We packed up Brock, went to the hospital from which we just came home from less than 24 hours ago, and began the fight against biliruben.  


When Cody was in the hospital he was either sedated and "happy" and I therefore couldn't touch him, but I didn't need to because he was "sleeping" OR, he was allowed to be held.  I have never been in a situation where I couldn't hold my sick, miserable, crying, flailing, angry baby.  And it was torture.  He was laying there under the lights that were going to help, him but he wasn't allowed to be swaddled, and I couldn't hold him.

The on-call Doctor kept suggesting I supplement with formula so we could feed him under the lights.  She kept suggesting I pump and feed him with a bottle.  She kept pissing me off to a place I didn't need to go since I was dealing with my crying, inconsolable baby and there was nothing I could do about it, except nurse him every two hours before putting him back under the lights...alone, scared and wearing a mask that had to be so awful for him.


I hate her....


The next morning we were going to find out what his levels were and the nurse kept telling us how great he looked.  Jim and I went down to eat  breakfast and anticipated packing everything up after coffee and taking Brock back home.  We made our way back to Brock's hospital room and fed him and I held him knowing that the results were what they were going to be, and holding him for a bit wouldn't change whether we could leave or not.  


And here comes the bottle-suggesting, inappropriate-smiling doctor to give us the news.  As her annoying smile started to stretch across her face and the words, "his numbers only dropped to 14 so he has to stay another night," left her mouth, I kept my composure so only to not feed her ego.  I didn't want her to know that her and her crappy news was killing me.  I listened and watched her mouth for only as long as I could and then walked to the window and sobbed.  


How could his numbers still be so high.  How can we stay here another night.  How can I watch him in that damn plastic bassinet with lights for another second.  How can I not hold him for another 24 hours?  How can I keep from throwing Dr. Freaking Smiley off the Walt Whitman freaking bridge.....


I can do this.  I  have Jim and I've been throught so much worse...

Back under  the lights he went....

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