It's been a while

It's been a while since I've written-too many late nights interrupted by small doses of sleep. I was going to use this entry to carry on from where I left off, but our baby ended up in hospital again recently. Seeing it was the very same hospital that I vowed not to return to, I thought it apt to write about that first and then conclude the hospital saga in it's entirety afterwards.

A few weeks ago, I noticed that Kye was really straining when attempting to have a bowel movement. I thought he was constipated and tried to massage his stomach and lift his legs to make it easier for him. He was in real agony and this was at about 3 o'clock in the morning. He produced a little "chicken tikka masala"
(I call it that because of it's colour and consistency) but it was a real effort.

A few hours later Michelle and I were outside the paediatrician's office waiting for it to open. We had to return to the same hospital I've been complaining about because it would have taken too long to get to the other one during rush hour traffic. This was the same paediatrician that was there at his birth and he was the one person that showed any compassion during what happened afterwards, so I felt comfortable taking Kye back to him.

Kye's stomach was really distended, and the poor little guy had to suffer the indignity and pain of having an adult finger inserted in him. After that, the whole lot of poo came out, with a little blood from the stretching of that little hole. I hate having to be present during these things, but he has to know that I'm there. If it makes it slightly more bearable for him, then it's worth it. We then had to go for more blood tests and return to the paediatrician later in the week for a follow up.

At the follow up, were learnt that he is allergic to the protein in cow's milk. I must mention at this point, that we had introduced formula to supplement the breast milk a couple of weeks before. He was put on to a special  formula that was extensively hydrolysed. This is where the greed of hospitals comes into play again. We went downstairs to their in house pharmacy to purchase the medication we required. The bill came to R432.84. Twenty seven percent of that bill was a "dispensing fee". The only thing that they had to mix was one item. Which means that they charged R45.14 for taking a R125.40 can of formula off the shelf, and R19.50 for taking a R54.17 bottle off the shelf! It is disgusting. The effort it must take to lift a can off the shelf behind you!

Later in the day I got a phone call from the paediatrician, asking us to return the following morning, as he had been thinking about Kye and was concerned about his breathing. (his breathing had been rapid at times at the previous appointment)

He checked him out again and said we have to book him into the hospital's paediatric ward that very morning. I had to stop myself from bursting into tears, it seemed like deja vu. The paediatrician said, given his
history and the fact that they were not really sure as to what caused his initial bout in NICU, that he wanted to conduct some tests on him. We decided to return home first and give him a bath and change of clothes, and then booked in shortly thereafter.

I gathered they were trying to determine if he had Hirshsprungs disease, which is a congenital disease of the large intestine, where the nerves cells are not properly developed, leading to a blockage. Once again Kye went through an array of tests, stool, blood, urine and ultrasound. Fortunately Michelle had a room to herself with him, but without a bed. That, one has to hire separately, and my dad kindly paid for the three nights that it was needed. (thanks dad). The paediatric ward was much better than the maternity ward, the staff being far more friendlier and professional.

One again, information regarding the timing of tests and the reasons therefore was not forthcoming. This seems to be a general thing amongst the medical fraternity. Apart from more painful procedures, the stay was uneventful, except for the same sort of cramping that Kye had experienced before. I was happy that the paediatrician was covering all bases and it looked like we might leave a day early. He said his colleague would be covering him on the Sunday and would be able to give a second opinion. It looked like they were considering a final test, which involved tracing the route of irradiated milk through his system.

There had always been security at the door to the ward, but I noticed over the weekend that there wasn't always someone there. On the Saturday night, after hours, I walked into the hospital, up the stairs, to the ward. No-one questioned my being there. There was no security guard at the entrance to the ward. I pressed the bell, it opened, and I walked through. There was no-one at the reception desk either, so I had basically got through unnoticed. I packed a large bag, more than adequate to fit a baby in, with some dirty clothes that needed washing and walked out the ward again, still unnoticed. I went down the stairs, past the security guard stationed at the trauma entrance (who wasn't there before). She looked at me, and at the bag, with a quizzical look, and then proceeded to carry on with the conversation she was having. I could have walked out with someone's baby and they would have been none the wiser. The next morning I asked the security guard why they think that people don't steal babies over weekends. She said that they are only stationed there when there are more than seven babies in the ward. How reassuring that the most babies anyone could steal at any one time remains at the minimal amount of seven.

It turned out Kye and Michelle would have to spend another night there. He was now on a even more specialised formula and Michelle had to cut out all dairy products from her diet. The paediatrician had said this formula was very expensive but I was yet to find out just how much. On the Monday we found that all the tests had come back positively, but he wanted us to take Kye to see a Professor that same week to get another opinion. In the meantime he had to have various medications as well as suppositories. Never in my life would I have imagined having to put a suppository in anyone, let alone my own child. But if you have to, then you just got to do it. The formula at the hospital's pharmacy came to R710 for a 400 gram tin, including their "dispensing fee". We got the same stuff at another pharmacy, where we could simply take it off the shelf ourselves, for R460. Obscene!


This professor came highly recommended by the nurse we had seen at the clinic for his injections. I asked her about the pharmacy downstairs and she said they themselves
were forced to use it because of their medical plan, and also charged the same dispensing fees.

The professor was a huge, old man, with an entire wall of certificates. He managed to elicit more smiles from my child in five minutes than I had in five weeks. He looked at the x-ray we had taken to him and he said that he did not have the disease I mentioned before. What a relief. He said it was probably a case of severe colic combined with a sphincter that hadn't learnt how to relax, for which he prescribed a cream. (more relief-no more suppositories) If it was still bad in a couple of weeks he said he would need to take a biopsy.

Since then, Kye has gone back to the less expensive formula. (thank goodness, as he was going through a can every 2 to 3 days)  He still has the cramps, they occur at about 3 every morning, but are not as severe as they were. Sometimes one of us has to sleep with him on our chest when it gets really bad. He loves his food. The neighbour's child is seven months old, Kye is two months old today, and weighs a kilogram less. He is like a human balloon, or a mini Marlon Brando (the latter years version) I didn't realise babies could be so expensive. Michelle will have to cut short her maternity leave by two months and return to work. I'm going to have to be a stay at home dad for a while, which will be interesting and very fulfilling I'm sure. I don't know how we'll manage, but I know we will somehow, we just have to. My family has helped a lot and I don't know what we'd do without them. So thanks to my old man and his wife, and my mom, and my aunt and sister for all they have done.

Kye is groaning in his sleep as I write this at 4 in the morning, so I'm going to leave this for now and sing him Simon and Garfunkel songs.

 

To Hell and Back (Part three)

I got home that Saturday night and all I wanted to do was sleep, so I did, for two hours. My dad had very kindly offered to help clean, and perhaps I should have taken him up on his offer, but he and his wife had done more than enough by that point. I managed to clean most of the carpet and went about disinfecting every conceivable thing I could lay my hands on-a pretty pointless exercise because of my dog Garp who seems to bring in more dirt than I can take out. (he has only one toy, as everything else only lasts a few minutes with his powerful jaws. It's a solid plastic ball with holes in, about the size of a football which gives him endless entertainment. The only problem is that these holes are a perfect receptacle for any dirt, that is then released on freshly cleaned floors.)

I then went off to the hospital to fetch Michelle and the "baby with no name". (I think we wanted to be sure everything was ok before we named him, and we couldn't reach consensus on a name anyway) It was a strange feeling, after such a week of turmoil, to dare to think that everything was going to be alright. It was just such a relief that it was over. I had figured out the car seat which was a lot easier than I thought it would be, and it wouldn't be long before he had his tiny little body resting in it. I packed up all the stuff that was spread around the room and soon we were ready to leave. We thanked the nurses and there was one in particular that I so very much wanted to take home with us. It's one thing handling and feeding a baby when you know there is someone to keep a watchful eye on things, quite another when that reassuring presence is no longer there. We booked out and soon he was in the car on the way home. We still had no crib for him to sleep in (the one in the baby room being far too large) so we managed to procure one from one of Michelle's colleagues. It was exactly the same as the one he had spent his time in hospital in. Someone down the line had not returned it to the hospital it seems, but it was just the right thing for having beside the bed.

Handling a newborn for me was like handling a rare Ming Dynasty vase. What if I do something wrong? It's irreplaceable and so delicate, but I've since realised that increased confidence in such matters comes with time. He was fed, changed, and put to bed. Our beautiful boy, home at last.

The tubes are out, just the tape from the oxygen thing left over his nose.
(I didn't want to be reminded of what he looked like with everything attached, so
this was the first photo I took of him in NICU)

Last day in hospital.

    

Home at last :)

A summary of the whole saga will follow this post.

To hell and back (part 2)

The ambulance eventually arrived, almost six hours later. The paramedics transferred him to the mobile incubator and Michelle and I followed him downstairs to the ambulance. Michelle got inside with him and I returned to the ward to collect her things, stopped off home to get something, and went straight to the hospital.

I had the shock of my life when I saw my son in the neonatal ICU. I had just been told by the previous hospital  that it wasn't too serious, nothing to worry about, it happens all the time. I got there as they were sticking a feeding pipe down his throat. He was on oxygen to keep his lungs inflated. He was on a drip and had tubes and wires all over him. I was worried before and to see him like this really scared me.

I asked the specialist what he thought was wrong. He said they could not be sure, but that he may have contracted the Strep B bacteria. There was a one in four thousand chance that he might have contracted it despite the antibiotics that Michelle had been given. I asked him what might happen if he did have this, and he said that if it spread it could cause meningitis. They could only be sure once they had done various blood tests. The first blood test would deliver a 50% accuracy and would have to grow culture in about four or five days to determine if this was the case.

My family were there in an instant and I don't know what I would have done without their support. It means far more to me than they could possibly realise. I think I cried more those few days than I had my entire life. Michelle and I had experienced the best and the worst day of our lives in the space of 24 hours.

I was at the hospital most of the time and Michelle was able to feed him in ICU, which was a bit of challenge with all the tubes and wires attached to him. The nurses topped up his milk from a cup to keep his glucose levels up. I have to say that the nurses there were fantastic, chalk and cheese compared to the hospital we had just come from. I felt far more assured with them around.

My only criticism is the lack of information that one is given, but I would imagine that this is true of most medical establishments. Fortunately I was there when they poked around in his little arms, trying to find a vein. I'm sure it helped him knowing I was there, although it was so distressing to see him in such pain. No-one tells you when these procedures are going to happen or why they're doing them. Earlier the doctor mentioned him having an ultrasound. Some time later someone came in with a large machine, asking who was meant to have the brain scan. Brain scan? Tell me when and tell me why! Do they think he's brain damaged?( I later learnt that the final diagnosis could have caused damage to the back of the brain.) But I didn't know that then because no-one told me.

At some point the dreaded gynaecologist arrived and the nurses told her that I had been brave to stay there with him when they were doing all these things to them. She remarked in a sarcastic tone that I was very sensitive. She then told the nurse that she didn't know what was going on that week, that she had delivered 11 babies and 10 of them were in ICU or experiencing problems! I could have told her that it was simply down to her, but I wasn't in the mood for a fight. I will be tackling her and her attitude in a different way, at a later date. I simply ignored her.

After two days, he progressively improved, and they were able to take him off oxygen, although he was still being fed antibiotics as a precautionary measure. He looked like a voodoo doll at this point, full of needle holes. When the doctor said that he might be able to get out of there by the Monday, I was ecstatic. He had earlier said that he might have to be there for 11 days, so this came as a great relief. The following day they were able to take him off the drip and things were looking far better.

Michelle was meant to be discharged on the Friday evening and I was worried that this would make things difficult as she wouldn't have a bed to sleep in, and she would still need to feed him. A nurse said that even though she had to be discharged, she could stay there that night, and could use the room the following day, but not the bed, which meant she would have to sit around all day but have to leave by that evening.

On the Saturday morning, the doctor said that things were looking so good that our boy could leave ICU and stay in the room with his mom. It would effectively mean that she was rooming with him and not the other way round, otherwise we'd have to pay the exorbitant costs that hospitals charge. And best of all, he could return home on the Sunday! So it all worked out in the end.

I left the hospital early that night, to get things ready for his homecoming, as I hadn't had a chance to do so the whole week. I was so relieved, and cognisant of the fact that there were others who were experiencing far worse things in that very ICU. There was a baby who had been delivered prematurely in the adjacent room. At 1,2 kg, he was minute, and would have to reach a weight of around 2kg before he could leave, which they estimated would take around 8 weeks. I can't begin to imagine what that must be like for the parents.

Part 3 still to come.....

To hell and back....(The Birth and beyond) Part One

This has been the biggest emotional roller coaster of my life. In the space of 24 hours I had had the best and the worst day of my life :

We arrived at the hospital at 830 on Tuesday morning the 26th of March. Michelle needed to arrive earlier than the scheduled 1:30 C-section, so that she could have antibiotics administered for Streptococcus. (a bacteria that about 40% of women have, that can infect the baby if not dealt with)

The day did not start out too well. The nurse arrived to insert a drip in Michelle's arm. The first vein collapsed, and the second attempt was a disaster too. She then said : "I don't usually do this, I'd better go and find someone else to do it." and promptly disappeared. She returned a little while later saying she couldn't find anyone and set about trying again. Fortunately she was successful with this third attempt. She somehow managed to get one of her bar code stickers stuck on Michelle's stomach, all the while haunting me with her clumsiness.

Not long afterwards, the gynaecologist arrived. She hardly said a word to us and spoke to the nurse attending Michelle. The nurse asked how her foot was, and gynaecologist answered that it's fine because she took her medication that morning, but she could still work! I found that very reassuring.

The C-section was delayed. I asked by how long. Oh, about half an hour. More like three hours. The nurses said the gynae was busy with two other patients and said it was strange that it had been delayed as they usually are not. Michelle hadn't eaten since 730 that morning and was getting hungry.

When we eventually arrived in the operating theatre, the head of the theatre asked the same clumsy nurse why the patient was still wearing her jewellery. The anaesthetist was great, and his manner very professional. The gynae arrived and chatted to the nurse while scrolling through her sms's on her cell phone. She only spoke to me as she was holding the scalpel in her hand, asking me if it was a breach baby. My jaw dropped and I said "Excuse me?!". "Well, I can't remember all my patients!" was her reply.

I would have stopped her right there and then, but I wanted this over and there were at least a number of other medical staff around her. I still can't believe she said that. Even if she had been joking, which I doubt, it is poor taste, given the circumstances.(a week before she had said something similar) Secondly, if she had been joking, then she should have verified that she was doing so.

I watched the cut, and the blood vessels being cauterized, which made me glad I hadn't opted for a bacon breakfast that morning. The next bit happened so rapidly that it was over before I realised it had started. He came out bum first and promptly urinated all over the place. My arms instinctively reached out. (he still needed to be assessed though) It was a shock to see him. In the back of my mind I sort of imagined him coming out all squeaky clean and white, but instead I was presented with a dark red little Indian. My first thought was : Is he mine? He looks nothing like me! What has my wife been up to?

I held him after they had tested him, and contrary to what I had expected, I didn't break down in tears. His eyes were open all along and all the way in the incubator going back to the ward, he was looking around.

He was measured by the same nightmare nurse I wrote about earlier. She poured half a bottle of antibiotics down the side of his face and I just wanted to push her out the way. The Paediatrician was also great. One could see he was compassionate, unlike most of the others. I held my new son after that, doing that Australian Kangaroo thing, and this is when the tears streamed down my face. When Michelle was stitched up he was taken to her for feeding and my family  could get to see him for the first time. Later on, the rest of the family got a chance. I stayed there a while, went to have a bite to eat and returned later that evening where they showed me how to bath him. The nurse (a different one) asked what the bump on the back of his head was. She said she had never seen something like it. I said I'm sure the Paediatrician would have mentioned if it was something out of the ordinary. Then I imagined having a son that looked like a mini Jacob Zuma and how far he would go if he joined the ANC later in life. I made a note to ask the Paediatrician about it in the morning. Then I went home for pretty much the last decent sleep I would have for a while.

In the morning I returned to the  hospital to find Michelle in tears. Our son was not beside her bed any more. She told me they had taken him away to see the Paediatrician as he wasn't well. I practically ran to the ward he was in. He was in an incubator, crying, and his breathing was very shallow and rapid. They didn't know what was wrong with him and told me they were waiting for blood tests to come back. I asked how long it would take and they said twenty minutes. I still don't know the results of THAT test. The Paediatrician said that their ICU was full and that he would have to be transferred to another hospital that had available space. He was phoning around and gave me some options and I chose the one that was closest to us. It was awful, seeing my son like that, waiting for everyone to get their stuff in order. Some other cocky head of department said he may have ingested amniotic fluid when he was delivered. The gist of it is that he was infected with something.

We were waiting for the ambulance to arrive. How long? 10 minutes they said. Half an hour later they said it could be any time, as the ambulance could not find an incubator for him to travel in.(only in South Africa, said the nurse)

 Could my wife accompany him? Well, what medical plan are you on? It's just sickening to think we've come to a such a point in this world. It was ok for her to go with him in the end and they would both be transferred to the new hospital. Still waiting for the ambulance : one hour, two, three, four, five........ We are both trying to comfort him through the incubator, heartbreaking to see him like this, not knowing what is wrong, when he'll be seen to, if he'll be ok......

Time to get outa here dad!

We went for what should have been the penultimate scan today. When we sat at the desk the gynaecologist asked if my wife was giving natural birth or if she was having a caesarean. That didn't exactly install me with confidence, seeing as the previous week she had told us that we had to book a caesarean at the hospital that very day. She may have a number of patients, but she also had our file on her desk and our details on the computer in front of her. She was also wearing the most peculiar outfit too-fairy like leggings supporting what I would politely describe as an apple figure. Except that the apple looks at you front on. I've refrained myself from asking when HER due date is. That aside, high blood pressure, calcifying placenta and not much amniotic fluid to swim around in, means that our child arrives a bit sooner than expected.

Everyone seems to think that it should be sooner than this coming Tuesday, and I hope the gynaecologist's decision had nothing to do with the imminent long weekend. I do hope she spends it shopping for a new outfit.

So how do I feel about this new surprise? It feels like I'm meant to write a school final exam, which is two weeks away and somebody suddenly says it's been changed for tomorrow. I feel totally unprepared, because I am. I was going to sort out the baby room next week and now that week is gone. I think my reality has returned from it's long vacation. So that chicken that I spoke of in my previous post, now has a thousand heads, all rolling around in different directions.

So Tuesday is B-day.  I'm excited of course, but I'm concerned about my reaction to blood and cutting flesh.  
It's fine when it's my own blood. I only notice that I'm injured when things get sticky. So much so, that I'm sure that one day I'll try and comb my hair, only to see that my arm is no longer there. But that's what that gas mask on the wall in the delivery room is for, right? Breathe in, breathe out.

You're looking really swell!

I didn't realise that women swell so much during the latter stages of pregnancy. I believed that swelling was restricted to the feet. My wife has lost her ankles and if I look down on at her lower bits, I'm reminded of a Russian peasant on the outskirts of Siberia. So I express my relief that they will not always remain so. Her hands have swollen, and she pointed out that her nose had too. It's like having my own Michelin Man. Before I am painted as callous, I must assure you that I have refrained from teasing her about her changing shape. Instead, I comment about her "glow", which is great, as it helps me locate her during power outages.

I watched my son squirm in his little womb last night. It reminded me of the first horror movie I watched when I was nine years old.. It was the first "Alien" movie and I remember the scene as if I watched it yesterday. One of the spacemen had an alien inside them, and their stomach was pulsating, moments before the alien ripped through his flesh in an explosion of white gunk. Thankfully he relaxed afterwards, (my son) but it was an amazing thing to see. The other thing I saw was a new dad with his trolley outside the supermarket. Inside he had his newborn baby in a carrier cot, and the look on his face made me want to choke. (with emotion, that is). In the brief moment that I saw his expression, it seemed that this little person was the only thing that existed in the world. It really was quite beautiful.

Other than that, there seems to be some error regarding the due date. The assessment clinic said the gyno was wrong and that it was a week after. The gyno says that they are wrong and it is a week earlier. So we've  
booked in for the second of April for a C-section.

I'm selling my "stuff" for the baby fund, as this pregnancy couldn't have come at a worst time, financially speaking. The first thing to go was the double bed in what will now be the baby's room. I could only get a less than a tenth of what it cost, which really irks me. I believe that our cat, Misery, was far more upset than I was. He cried when he saw his number one resting place was gone and afterwards became a little violent. He jumped on the baby cot and started clawing things, and then ran out in a huff. I hope he gets over it.

There is still so much to do with regards to the room, I feel like a chicken without a head. Piles of piles that shift like drifting sand from room to room. My just desert (sic) for having not tackled it earlier?

Three weeks to go (or sooner)

It's not long to go now, before he pops out, or is excised. I have spent weeks moving my collection of "things" (That I will never need until I get rid of them) from one area to another. This has freed up around one square metre in the baby room, so I hope he's not too big when he arrives.

I woke up the other night and the first thing I saw were a pair of huge feet. For a second I thought I'd woken up next to Michael Phelps, and things were going swimmingly until I realised that they were attached to my wife. They are so swollen with water retention that it sounds like I'm on a water bed. I'm sure she looks forward to a time when overall swelling is a thing of the past.

We had a good laugh the other night, and I've wondered if I should mention it on this blog, but after much deliberation I've decided, that I just have to. (with Michelle's consent of course)

We were talking about the ramifications of a natural birth versus a c-section, and she mentioned that she had started doing Kegel exercises. (pelvic floor exercises for those who don't know). This in itself was funny because I know my wife is averse to exercise in general, and I found it rather refreshing that she was now exercising from the inside out, and one that might even be beneficial to me, if I ever get round to that sort of thing again. I asked her how many puss-ups she had done? It was funny at the time, especially if one substitutes the first half with the colloquial version that the Cape Flats has become renowned for.

The cat, Misery,  has taken a liking to the baby carrier, and still has an attachment to the large tiger toy, that awaits junior. It's like a surrogate parent to him-he snuggles up to it every night. He still urinates on the baby room curtain, and I have to get him to stop that- it won't be a good example to the baby.