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I. Am. Tired. I had forgotten how inhumanely exhausting having a new born was like! Being up half the night feeding, burping, rocking… and then of course toddler waking in between for the odd bottle or nappy change! But they do prepare you in hospital, by not allowing you to sleep five minutes without being woken up!
What is it about hospitals? They seem to live on a different time zone to the rest of us mortals. I had my Caesar at 8:35pm, and had not eaten the entire day… well except for the odd jelly bear during labour – about all I could manage (oh… yes, did I mention? I have officially experienced labour pains… and all I can say… take the drugs at the first sign. Don't be a martyr.) Anyway as I was being wheeled back to the ward I asked my gynae if I could have something to eat and she said fine, just something light like soup or a small sarmie. I told this to the nurses but oh no… you can watch your dear husband eat, but sorry darling, you have to survive on water for the next twelve hours.
Which would have been okay had they allowed me to actually sleep for the next twelve hours. Instead of waltzing in at 5am and unceremoniously swishing the curtains back and singsonging “Good Morning!”. Good? You mean with a catheter up my you know what, surfboard sized feminine hygiene products in my underwear, boobs swollen to Pam Anderson proportions… and you say it's good? Hold on sister, let me just push this little button on my morphine drip… ahh, that's better, yes the morning is looking a little sunnier… 5am… oh well at least they will feed me now.
Think again. Sorry ma'am, breakfast only at 8! What? You mean I am paying an extra R400 bucks a night for a private room, to be woken up at 5, not fed, and kept up half the night by the nurses chatting outside my room? What do you think I am? A masochist? Oh, but you can have a cup of tea if you want. Tell that to the lady who hasn't had seven layers of muscles cut to the core, catheter removed and the thought of actually walking to the toilet in this agony… no thanks, I won't have any tea.
So eventually 8am comes around, and finally you get some soggy cornflakes and rubbery fried eggs. I quickly learnt that it's best to order the cold breakfast, lunch and supper – for two reasons – one, the hot suppers tend to be reheated and therefore not so lekker, and two, baby often is brought to you in between eating so you tend to only get round to the food an hour later. This happened a lot during breakfast, which remember, got delivered at 8am, so often I only got round to eating between 9 and 10, something I am sure happens frequently…
So why, oh why, do they bring you lunch at 12? I had hardly finished my breakfast before lunch was plonked in front of me… again, I stuck to salad so that I could eat it at a more reasonable 1:30! And then there's supper. Where I come from, the earliest we eat is 6:30pm, but more likely 7:30. So why do they decide that 5 o'clock is a good time to eat supper? It's like being on an aeroplane, where they try and get you on a different time zone as fast as possible! On my last night I just gave up on supper altogether and got my husband to bring me a toasted sarmie from downstairs at 7pm, knowing that if I didn't eat later I would be feeling sick from no food since 5pm at 3 the next morning!
It was good to get home, although having been up most of the night with baby I do miss that nice little call button that summons a nurse to take your little bundle to the nursery so that you can get a few hours sleep… oh for the luxury of a night nurse! But of course nothing beats having that tiny little head snuggled against your skin as they drink… even if it does seem like the twentieth time that night! I know all too soon my tiny bundle will be a great big heffalump like her big sister, and then who knows, maybe I might just start contemplating number three… but as far as I am concerned until they can put sleep in a bottle contemplate is about as far as it will go! More on the baby front next month! She's sleeping now, so my bed is calling me. Goodnight.
© Sally Hetherington .
