My husband and I watched the Olympics this week - both with mostly indifference. I watched while folding laundry, he while working on a computer program. Yet both of us looked up and paid attention when a skater wiped out. The network played it over and over and in slower and slower motion.
"Too bad," I said.
"I wish they wouldn't show it like that, " he commented, "I don't like to see them fall."
The next night was downhill skiing. An American athlete was heading down the slope when she lost control and fell, sliding out of bounds and out of any chance of winning a medal. Again we both looked up. I took notice, but my husband winced.
It was then that I realized the difference in the ways we looked at these failures. My husband is a dreamer. Not just a dreamer, but an achiever. I have never known someone who will pursue a dream with more fervent dedication and dogged determination. When he saw the athletes fall, he felt genuine empathy for their loss. He could empathize because as he has pursued his dreams he has fallen and been criticized and threatened. He has known the fear of these things and pressed on anyway. For him, the biggest loss is giving up.
Identity is not something you can purchase cheaply. The Bible says that Christ is able to identify with us because He suffered. You can sympathize with someone who has failed or been hurt, but you cannot truly emphatically identify with them unless you have experienced it yourself. I usually try to avoid pain and failure. But in doing so, I have closed doors that may have been great avenues of opportunity. I can't really identify with the Olympic athletes. I don't involve myself much in sports and I've never had a dream, or maybe, I've never had the willingness to pursue a dream despite the cost.
Saturday, February 18, 2006
Book Review: Milk, Money, and Madness
Title: Milk, Money, and Madness: The Culture and Politics of Breastfeeding
Authors: Dr. Naomi Baumslag and Dia L. Michels
Published: 1995
Milk, Money and Madness explores the cultural, historical, economic, political, and medical impact of breastfeeding. Throughout the book, the authors repeat their theme: "breastfeeding is the single largest determinant of whether an infant lives or dies" (70). Additionally, they discuss variants in society norms surrounding breastfeeding around the world and throughout history, the tragic history of artificial feeding of infants, the impact of breastfeeding on the mother and the family, and balancing breastfeeding and the workplace.
Throughout the world, there is a wide variety of breastfeeding traditions and positions. Milk, Money, and Madness shows breastfeeding as an ancient tradition that has ensured the survival of human babies. The authors point out that there has always been an occasional need for babies to be fed by some other means that at their mother's breast. Historically, the most successful substitute was a wet nurse, but other options were explored. Until the 20th century, the majority of babies who were fed anything other than breastmilk died. Additionally, the predecessors to the modern baby bottle were often unsafe - difficult to clean and contaminated with bacteria.
Baumslag and Michels admit that while formula has come a long way and can be safe for babies, it is often aggressively marketed to people in developing nations without means to correctly prepare it or clean bottles. Also formula does not have the immunological effect of breastmilk and is clearly inferior to breastmilk. They say, "infant formula companies have succeeded in undermining the confidence of mothers" (148) and "the availability and promotion of alternative foods usually has a demoralizing effect on both the individual and social confidence in breastfeeding" (126). Interestingly, until the 1980s, formula companies did not advertise directly to the consumer. On formula packaging it recommends that you talk with your doctor before use, but is so common that it is not generally thought of as the last resort in infant feeding.
In conclusion, Milk, Money, and Madness explores examples of ways breastfeeding is encouraged and promoted around the world. Then it presents a plan for expanding this promotion through federal subsidies, education, and regulation of formula companies. Clearly most women find working and breastfeeding to be incompatible. In the United States only 1 in 5 babies are still breastfed at 5 months of age (108).
In general, I found this book to be very encouraing of my own decision to breastfeed. The authors spared no detail to discuss the incredible superiority of breastmilk compared with formula. Also I agreed that the current trend of working mothers does not encourage long term breastfeeding (at least one year) as is recommended by the American Academy of Pediatrics.
However, I am always a little suspicious of a book that engages me emotionally. I am torn on whether or not a woman should feel guilty on her decision not to breastfeed. I personally feel they do not realize their own sacrifice of joy and closeness to their baby. And I feel that many women I know have been told their milk is not good enough for their baby when this is probably not the case. Baumslag and Michels say, "There are clearly times when withholding breastmilk is in the best interest of the child, but these times represent the exception, not the rule" (100). They even present a case that women involved in moderate use of illicit drugs could still breastfeed without harming the child. In developing countries where clean water is not always available, they contend that an HIV-positive mother can breastfeed and the baby will have a better chance of survival (98-100).
Baumslag and Michels say, "breastmilk is superior to artificial feeding in all places, at all times, and for all women" (93). Notice that they do not say "breastfeeding is superior...for all women", the authors are in favor of milk banks where mothers might be able to obtain milk from another woman to feed their baby.
Despite the superiority of breastmilk, there must be some reason why 4 of 5 American babies are breastfed for such a short time. Baumslag and Michels say that it is because of work. They give examples of several European nations that require certain compensation and time off for maternity leave. My major problem with this information is that many of these nations have a socialist government. In fact as the book neared the end, it became more a political statement. I disagree that government intervention will solve all the world's problems. However, Baumslag and Michels seem to be motivated by what is best for the family (rather than "what women want").
I am concerned with growing social programs and feel it would be unfair to hold small businesses to standards this book suggests. (98% of American businesses are classified as "small businesses" employing 50 or fews individuals http://econ4u.org/econ4u_topic.cfm?topic=10). These businesses usually can't afford to hold jobs for a year or two and/or compensate an employee for a long term absense.
This book is now 10 years old and times are changing. France, which the book heralds as having a superior system, is now showing signs that their socialist government is over weighted. The baby boomer generation is beginning to retire and be replaced with a smaller generation. As the work force shrinks some, hopefully larger corporations will adopt the suggestions of this book as incentives for employees. In the end, I hope more families will stay together and more women will decide that there is no amount of money worth more than the value of staying home with their babies and young children and that breastfeeding will be a part of investing in the future or their family.
Authors: Dr. Naomi Baumslag and Dia L. Michels
Published: 1995
Milk, Money and Madness explores the cultural, historical, economic, political, and medical impact of breastfeeding. Throughout the book, the authors repeat their theme: "breastfeeding is the single largest determinant of whether an infant lives or dies" (70). Additionally, they discuss variants in society norms surrounding breastfeeding around the world and throughout history, the tragic history of artificial feeding of infants, the impact of breastfeeding on the mother and the family, and balancing breastfeeding and the workplace.
Throughout the world, there is a wide variety of breastfeeding traditions and positions. Milk, Money, and Madness shows breastfeeding as an ancient tradition that has ensured the survival of human babies. The authors point out that there has always been an occasional need for babies to be fed by some other means that at their mother's breast. Historically, the most successful substitute was a wet nurse, but other options were explored. Until the 20th century, the majority of babies who were fed anything other than breastmilk died. Additionally, the predecessors to the modern baby bottle were often unsafe - difficult to clean and contaminated with bacteria.
Baumslag and Michels admit that while formula has come a long way and can be safe for babies, it is often aggressively marketed to people in developing nations without means to correctly prepare it or clean bottles. Also formula does not have the immunological effect of breastmilk and is clearly inferior to breastmilk. They say, "infant formula companies have succeeded in undermining the confidence of mothers" (148) and "the availability and promotion of alternative foods usually has a demoralizing effect on both the individual and social confidence in breastfeeding" (126). Interestingly, until the 1980s, formula companies did not advertise directly to the consumer. On formula packaging it recommends that you talk with your doctor before use, but is so common that it is not generally thought of as the last resort in infant feeding.
In conclusion, Milk, Money, and Madness explores examples of ways breastfeeding is encouraged and promoted around the world. Then it presents a plan for expanding this promotion through federal subsidies, education, and regulation of formula companies. Clearly most women find working and breastfeeding to be incompatible. In the United States only 1 in 5 babies are still breastfed at 5 months of age (108).
In general, I found this book to be very encouraing of my own decision to breastfeed. The authors spared no detail to discuss the incredible superiority of breastmilk compared with formula. Also I agreed that the current trend of working mothers does not encourage long term breastfeeding (at least one year) as is recommended by the American Academy of Pediatrics.
However, I am always a little suspicious of a book that engages me emotionally. I am torn on whether or not a woman should feel guilty on her decision not to breastfeed. I personally feel they do not realize their own sacrifice of joy and closeness to their baby. And I feel that many women I know have been told their milk is not good enough for their baby when this is probably not the case. Baumslag and Michels say, "There are clearly times when withholding breastmilk is in the best interest of the child, but these times represent the exception, not the rule" (100). They even present a case that women involved in moderate use of illicit drugs could still breastfeed without harming the child. In developing countries where clean water is not always available, they contend that an HIV-positive mother can breastfeed and the baby will have a better chance of survival (98-100).
Baumslag and Michels say, "breastmilk is superior to artificial feeding in all places, at all times, and for all women" (93). Notice that they do not say "breastfeeding is superior...for all women", the authors are in favor of milk banks where mothers might be able to obtain milk from another woman to feed their baby.
Despite the superiority of breastmilk, there must be some reason why 4 of 5 American babies are breastfed for such a short time. Baumslag and Michels say that it is because of work. They give examples of several European nations that require certain compensation and time off for maternity leave. My major problem with this information is that many of these nations have a socialist government. In fact as the book neared the end, it became more a political statement. I disagree that government intervention will solve all the world's problems. However, Baumslag and Michels seem to be motivated by what is best for the family (rather than "what women want").
I am concerned with growing social programs and feel it would be unfair to hold small businesses to standards this book suggests. (98% of American businesses are classified as "small businesses" employing 50 or fews individuals http://econ4u.org/econ4u_topic.cfm?topic=10). These businesses usually can't afford to hold jobs for a year or two and/or compensate an employee for a long term absense.
This book is now 10 years old and times are changing. France, which the book heralds as having a superior system, is now showing signs that their socialist government is over weighted. The baby boomer generation is beginning to retire and be replaced with a smaller generation. As the work force shrinks some, hopefully larger corporations will adopt the suggestions of this book as incentives for employees. In the end, I hope more families will stay together and more women will decide that there is no amount of money worth more than the value of staying home with their babies and young children and that breastfeeding will be a part of investing in the future or their family.
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
When Cheaters Win
Not long ago, one of the talk radio hosts I listen to regularly was discussing the problem of cheating among high school and college age students. While I agreed with the host that cheating is wrong and prevents learning, I began to consider that some forms of cheating are really very good ways to learn.
When I got to college, I majored in English. Almost immediately I began hearing about this horrid class called "Practical Criticism" I would have to take my sophomore year. As I began dreading this class I learned it was only taught by one very unapproachable professor at only one time and that was that. So, I took it, and to my surprise, it wasn't that hard. In fact, it was probably the most influential and important English class I took while I was in school. It lead me to the dungeon of the library where the Literary Criticism collections were held. I discovered that every book I could dream of had criticism already written about it. Since I was not skilled or experienced in writing critically, I began reading these articles and citing them in my papers. I made A's galore. I wasn't sure how to think on my own, so I guess I sort of copied. Then (and now) I felt like I wasn't copying, more like using their ideas as a spring board. I always gave them credit in my papers. Was I cheating? Or was I learning? Regardless, I did learn. By the time I graduated I knew how to think and write critically about literature.
Two other examples of cheating to learn are found in the art of cooking and, well, art. In order to learn to cook, you must cheat - check the book and copy someone else's idea - word for word in fact, if you want to be able to eat what you have started. As you become more confident in your culinary skills, you can start substituting ingredients and giving dishes your own personal touch.
Similarly, art can be learned. Art 1003 is not a class full of real artists. There are always a couple of budding Picassos, but most of the group is just looking for a fun and easy A. Art isn't necessarily perfect, but it does require creativity. In an effort to inspire our creativity, my art professor gave us the assignment to "make fun of a master." We had to pick a famous painting and repaint it with humorous changes. I painted The Scream at a football game. A friend spoofed Warhol's Campbell's Soup Can by painting a store brand's soup can.
Through these areas of experience I have formed a hypothesis that you must "imitate before you can create." Children don't learn to write by randomly making marks on a page! If you don't know how to do something, you must "cheat" to practice. The difference between cheating and cheating is in your motive - is it to get out of learning? Or is it to do just that? One is wrong and the other is essential.
When I got to college, I majored in English. Almost immediately I began hearing about this horrid class called "Practical Criticism" I would have to take my sophomore year. As I began dreading this class I learned it was only taught by one very unapproachable professor at only one time and that was that. So, I took it, and to my surprise, it wasn't that hard. In fact, it was probably the most influential and important English class I took while I was in school. It lead me to the dungeon of the library where the Literary Criticism collections were held. I discovered that every book I could dream of had criticism already written about it. Since I was not skilled or experienced in writing critically, I began reading these articles and citing them in my papers. I made A's galore. I wasn't sure how to think on my own, so I guess I sort of copied. Then (and now) I felt like I wasn't copying, more like using their ideas as a spring board. I always gave them credit in my papers. Was I cheating? Or was I learning? Regardless, I did learn. By the time I graduated I knew how to think and write critically about literature.
Two other examples of cheating to learn are found in the art of cooking and, well, art. In order to learn to cook, you must cheat - check the book and copy someone else's idea - word for word in fact, if you want to be able to eat what you have started. As you become more confident in your culinary skills, you can start substituting ingredients and giving dishes your own personal touch.
Similarly, art can be learned. Art 1003 is not a class full of real artists. There are always a couple of budding Picassos, but most of the group is just looking for a fun and easy A. Art isn't necessarily perfect, but it does require creativity. In an effort to inspire our creativity, my art professor gave us the assignment to "make fun of a master." We had to pick a famous painting and repaint it with humorous changes. I painted The Scream at a football game. A friend spoofed Warhol's Campbell's Soup Can by painting a store brand's soup can.
Through these areas of experience I have formed a hypothesis that you must "imitate before you can create." Children don't learn to write by randomly making marks on a page! If you don't know how to do something, you must "cheat" to practice. The difference between cheating and cheating is in your motive - is it to get out of learning? Or is it to do just that? One is wrong and the other is essential.
Friday, February 10, 2006
Learning to Read
I've recently re-read some things I read a few years ago, and, as I've finished the books, articles, or whatever it was, I've been astonished to realize that what I read was not about what I thought it was. I read a lot of books in high school, especially my senior year, but my understanding of all the books I read was superficial. Then I went to college and majored in English and, the truth be told, read as little as was necessary. I still graduated with a very nice GPA and a degree in English in spite of it all.
A few years later I circumstancially got a job teaching high school English. Now I was forced to revisit the books I had read, and to read them for greater understanding. As things changed, I ended up teaching first grade - teaching little children how to read. The strange thing is that the six year olds were anxious to read and read very well for their age. The sixteen year olds were anxious to avoid reading and read about as well as the six year olds.
Children begin learning to read as soon as they begin learning phonetic sounds. For several years, their school curriculum includes "reading" as a core subject. Around sixth or seventh grade "reading" becomes a part of "English" or just literature. The assumption is that they now know how to read well enough to read to learn rather than learn to read. However, this is rarely true, even of very good students.
I was a very good student. And yet, I was only mediocre. After I graduated from college I began to read more slowly, thinking about the words, and slowly I truly began to learn to read ... to learn to read to learn.
Is there a place in a high school education to teach reading without it being a truly remedial course? To realize that just because a student can sound out and recognize all the words that doesn't automatically mean their comprehension is where it should be.
And where should it be? It should be the place where a pianist is when she plays to entertain herself. When you read to teach yourself and to amuse yourself, then you know how to read.
A few years later I circumstancially got a job teaching high school English. Now I was forced to revisit the books I had read, and to read them for greater understanding. As things changed, I ended up teaching first grade - teaching little children how to read. The strange thing is that the six year olds were anxious to read and read very well for their age. The sixteen year olds were anxious to avoid reading and read about as well as the six year olds.
Children begin learning to read as soon as they begin learning phonetic sounds. For several years, their school curriculum includes "reading" as a core subject. Around sixth or seventh grade "reading" becomes a part of "English" or just literature. The assumption is that they now know how to read well enough to read to learn rather than learn to read. However, this is rarely true, even of very good students.
I was a very good student. And yet, I was only mediocre. After I graduated from college I began to read more slowly, thinking about the words, and slowly I truly began to learn to read ... to learn to read to learn.
Is there a place in a high school education to teach reading without it being a truly remedial course? To realize that just because a student can sound out and recognize all the words that doesn't automatically mean their comprehension is where it should be.
And where should it be? It should be the place where a pianist is when she plays to entertain herself. When you read to teach yourself and to amuse yourself, then you know how to read.
Friday, February 03, 2006
Memoirs of a Cesarean Section
It all started at our Bradley Method natural childbirth class. During a break I was contemplating the fact that 20% of babies are born by c-section. (The statistic is higher in Miami.) There were 8 couples in our class. Odds were at least one of us would be taking the class for nothing. Not me, I thought smuggly.
Wednesday - 38 weeks pregnant. My midwife checks my cervix and brings the suprise news - the baby is breech. A lightning quick ultrasound confirms it. I am so disappointed that the babies in the waiting room make me feel sad.
My midwife makes some calls, but because I have a bicornuate uterus, no doctor will attempt an external version. This condition also makes it extremely unlikely that the baby will turn. I go home and prop my hips up on a pillow and point a flash light between my legs anyway. Meanwhile, the section is scheduled for Friday at 10am. I look forward to it with all the excitement of oral surgury. I feel like I've forgotten I'm having a baby. Worry that I will somehow be deficient as a mother.
Friday comes. I make breakfast for my husband, but fast myself. We warn the dog that his life is about to change and head for the car. At the hospital we fill out paper work. I get a wrist full of bracelets and they call me back to be prepped for surgury.
A nurse asks me to undress and put on a hospital gown. Then she shaves the area where the incision will be and inserts an iv and a catheter. I listen to the baby's heartbeat thump on the monitor. I had planned to give birth with only a heparin lock, but now I have more than 5 tubes and wires coming from my body.
While I wait, a woman on a gurney is wheeled in. She appears to be sleeping and is covered by a puffy blanket that is filled with air. I can't decide what is wrong with her. She looks very sick. It takes me some time to realize she had just had a baby by cesarean and is in recovery.
Slowly the team of doctors arrive. One of the first is the anesthesiologist. He seems nice, but I'm starting to get anxious. With all the wires I feel trapped. I've got to get off this bed. I want to go home, where's the car? I tell my husband. Suddenly the anesthesiologist pats my shoulder, "I gave you something, you'll feel better soon" and a bizarre calm washes over me. Everything is A-O-K, let's have a baby, what the heck, let's have two!
The surgeon is late, doesn't matter much, but I begin to think, do I want an old doctor or a young doctor? A young doctor would be fresh from med school and up on the latest techniques, but an older one would be more experienced. I decide I want the surgeon to be old just before a boy walks in. He looks like the bass player from a garage band in scrubs. He's the surgeon.
Suddenly everything is on go. I'm in the OR - it's so white! My midwife sits me up and tells me to lean over like a shrimp. Then I'm on my back with my arms stretched out. Everyone is wearing surgical masks. My husband comes in and sits by my head. "They already have you open!" he says. "You look like I duck," I say.
I feel nothing, no tugging nothing. They won't tell me the baby's sex until the whole body is out - even though the baby is breech and the head is the last part out. "It's a boy!" someone shouts. A boy! I can't believe it. They quickly bring the baby over near my head. He is screaming and covered in a red web. Definately a boy! My first thought is, "He's so big! How did he fit inside me!"
After cleaning him up, they bring the baby to my face. I touch him with my free hand and kiss his face - so warm! He cries and cries. Then they wisk him away. My husband follows him to the nursury. When they're gone I look up the ceiling and realize how much my shoulders ache. Someone folds my arms over my chest and suddenly I'm back in the prep area, only now I'm the sick looking woman under a puffy blanket. I am aware that in another corner of the room, another woman is bring prepped for her cesarean.
I sleep for a while, but I'm anxious to see the baby again. But the nurses say I have to stay in recovery until I can move my feet and legs. My husband comes in with digital pictures of the baby. He looks so strange - such a round head and a big nose. Why was he so big?
Finally with the force I would normally kick with I move my legs. I am taken to my room and hear wheels squeeking in the hallway. They roll in a plastic box with my baby in it. They hand him to me and I stare in disbelief. He is not enormous, he is tiny. His nose is so small. So small and I can't even pick him up because of the incision. I have to have someone else hand him to me.
I appreciate the electric bed. I can't sit up without it. Following my midwifes instructions I decide to try to walk 7 hours after the surgury. I had been so thirsty and begged for water. The nurses helped me stand up with all my wires. I feel incredibly dizzy and sick. I take two steps and sit down. Then I throw up the water.
I itch all over - a common reaction to the medicines they have given me. One nurse insists on giving me hospital strength benadryl. It makes me loopy, but I still itch. I feel frustrated to be so loopy, the baby is very sleepy and I am trying to make sure he wakes up to nurse.
Saturday morning, things are getting better. I can walk a few steps without feeling nauserous. It will be a couple of weeks before I can walk without wincing, but I can get out of bed.
Days and nights blur into nursing sessions and diaper changes. I am overcome with awe to watch my son change and grow so quickly. Before I know it he is smiling and cooing and my cesarean is just a scar to remind me how tiny he was.
Wednesday - 38 weeks pregnant. My midwife checks my cervix and brings the suprise news - the baby is breech. A lightning quick ultrasound confirms it. I am so disappointed that the babies in the waiting room make me feel sad.
My midwife makes some calls, but because I have a bicornuate uterus, no doctor will attempt an external version. This condition also makes it extremely unlikely that the baby will turn. I go home and prop my hips up on a pillow and point a flash light between my legs anyway. Meanwhile, the section is scheduled for Friday at 10am. I look forward to it with all the excitement of oral surgury. I feel like I've forgotten I'm having a baby. Worry that I will somehow be deficient as a mother.
Friday comes. I make breakfast for my husband, but fast myself. We warn the dog that his life is about to change and head for the car. At the hospital we fill out paper work. I get a wrist full of bracelets and they call me back to be prepped for surgury.
A nurse asks me to undress and put on a hospital gown. Then she shaves the area where the incision will be and inserts an iv and a catheter. I listen to the baby's heartbeat thump on the monitor. I had planned to give birth with only a heparin lock, but now I have more than 5 tubes and wires coming from my body.
While I wait, a woman on a gurney is wheeled in. She appears to be sleeping and is covered by a puffy blanket that is filled with air. I can't decide what is wrong with her. She looks very sick. It takes me some time to realize she had just had a baby by cesarean and is in recovery.
Slowly the team of doctors arrive. One of the first is the anesthesiologist. He seems nice, but I'm starting to get anxious. With all the wires I feel trapped. I've got to get off this bed. I want to go home, where's the car? I tell my husband. Suddenly the anesthesiologist pats my shoulder, "I gave you something, you'll feel better soon" and a bizarre calm washes over me. Everything is A-O-K, let's have a baby, what the heck, let's have two!
The surgeon is late, doesn't matter much, but I begin to think, do I want an old doctor or a young doctor? A young doctor would be fresh from med school and up on the latest techniques, but an older one would be more experienced. I decide I want the surgeon to be old just before a boy walks in. He looks like the bass player from a garage band in scrubs. He's the surgeon.
Suddenly everything is on go. I'm in the OR - it's so white! My midwife sits me up and tells me to lean over like a shrimp. Then I'm on my back with my arms stretched out. Everyone is wearing surgical masks. My husband comes in and sits by my head. "They already have you open!" he says. "You look like I duck," I say.
I feel nothing, no tugging nothing. They won't tell me the baby's sex until the whole body is out - even though the baby is breech and the head is the last part out. "It's a boy!" someone shouts. A boy! I can't believe it. They quickly bring the baby over near my head. He is screaming and covered in a red web. Definately a boy! My first thought is, "He's so big! How did he fit inside me!"
After cleaning him up, they bring the baby to my face. I touch him with my free hand and kiss his face - so warm! He cries and cries. Then they wisk him away. My husband follows him to the nursury. When they're gone I look up the ceiling and realize how much my shoulders ache. Someone folds my arms over my chest and suddenly I'm back in the prep area, only now I'm the sick looking woman under a puffy blanket. I am aware that in another corner of the room, another woman is bring prepped for her cesarean.
I sleep for a while, but I'm anxious to see the baby again. But the nurses say I have to stay in recovery until I can move my feet and legs. My husband comes in with digital pictures of the baby. He looks so strange - such a round head and a big nose. Why was he so big?
Finally with the force I would normally kick with I move my legs. I am taken to my room and hear wheels squeeking in the hallway. They roll in a plastic box with my baby in it. They hand him to me and I stare in disbelief. He is not enormous, he is tiny. His nose is so small. So small and I can't even pick him up because of the incision. I have to have someone else hand him to me.
I appreciate the electric bed. I can't sit up without it. Following my midwifes instructions I decide to try to walk 7 hours after the surgury. I had been so thirsty and begged for water. The nurses helped me stand up with all my wires. I feel incredibly dizzy and sick. I take two steps and sit down. Then I throw up the water.
I itch all over - a common reaction to the medicines they have given me. One nurse insists on giving me hospital strength benadryl. It makes me loopy, but I still itch. I feel frustrated to be so loopy, the baby is very sleepy and I am trying to make sure he wakes up to nurse.
Saturday morning, things are getting better. I can walk a few steps without feeling nauserous. It will be a couple of weeks before I can walk without wincing, but I can get out of bed.
Days and nights blur into nursing sessions and diaper changes. I am overcome with awe to watch my son change and grow so quickly. Before I know it he is smiling and cooing and my cesarean is just a scar to remind me how tiny he was.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)