Post-partum blue

This is me within a minute or two after pushing Ida out. Of course none of us thought to get a picture of her moments after coming out in all of her goopy glory, but we do have documented this look on my face. What is that look? I can't describe it. I'm smiling but there's something else there too. And Matt's hand on my shoulder.


At the risk of sounding ungrateful, or whiny, or something, I want to tell you about my night alone at the hospital. (I am going to tell you Ida's birth story in greater detail once I write it down...because it is awesome.) Matt stayed with me on Sunday night, and I really wanted to go home with him on Monday, but because I was beta strep positive and didn't receive the entire necessary dose of antibiotics, only having been at the hospital for 2 hours before Ida was born, she and I had to stay an extra day so that she could be observed. I hate the hospital, and I don't like sleeping alone.

Probably due to dehydration during labor, I had ridiculously low blood pressure after Ida's birth--I mean like in the 70s/30s. (Normal for me is 100/60.) I had a very hard time walking for the first few days, in fact every time I got out of bed my BP would crash. I was nervous about sending Ida to the nursery, so I took her into bed with me on Monday night. I thought this might facilitate my first night of sleep in 3 days, but that was not to be. Instead, neither of us slept. Finally, in desperation and loneliness, I called the nurse at 4 a.m. and sent my little baby off to the nursery.

While she was gone, I lay alone in bed and felt sorry for myself. I had had wonderful nurses my first day and a half in the hospital, but the nurse assigned to me that night was brusque to the point of rudeness, and not very accommodating at all. Ever since Matt and Hester had left at around 6 p.m., I had been on the edge of losing it, and if you've ever been on the edge of losing it you know that brusque, rude, and unaccommodating is not helpful.

Finally after a tearful prayer I suddenly remembered my conversation with my OB just hours earlier. He had come into my room around 9 p.m. to give me the once-over and tell me the basics about recovery. "Mama and baby are so cozy lying there together," he boomed as he walked into our dark room. I have admitted to you before that due to his thick accent, I usually only understand about half of what he says. (For example, he asked me, "Do you know about my status?" Me: "No, what's your status?" Him, pointing to his chest: "You may have some red or hot spots, nausea, vomiting. Call me if this happens." Me: "Ohhh, mastitis.")

During our chat he told me about "a little something called 'post-partum blue'." "This is what happen when mama don't have enough help," he explained. If it's not clear to you by now, early that morning I was feeling the post-partum blue. I thought about the rest of our conversation. He asked me various things about my recovery thus far and beamed at my answers. "Mama, I told you already. You were made to do this," he said.

I thought about that and cried some more, but it felt good. Then the nurse brought Ida back and through my window I could see the edges of the sun coming up.