Moments of Hurt

The Background

I have never written birth stories for any of my kids, and I don't know if I ever will.  This post is not Trent's birth story but it will contain moments from it.

I did not know that Trent had Down syndrome before he was born.  My c-section, to be the third one, was scheduled for a few days in the future but I went into labor on my own.  

As the team prepared me for surgery, it was discovered that Trent was in distress.  My husband, who had watched the first two c-sections, knew the procedure of it fairly well.  This one, however, was different.  He later told me how horrified he was by it all.  They rushed with the cutting and the delivering in order to save Trent.  They were so rough while pulling him out, my body was being lifted off the table.  The doctor was elbows in.

Trent was quickly whisked away and our nightmare began.  He was transferred to a larger hospital out of state.  I had no chance to recover or rest from the c-section and my incision became infected.  It oozed puss, blood, and clear liquids.  The top layers would break open.  Dissolvable stitches kept coming out instead of dissolving.  I was wearing feminine pads against my belly. 

Between driving out of state to spend time with Trent and trying to treat my own infection, I was pumping breast milk in order to maintain my supply. Giving Trent my milk, with all its nutrients and antibiotics, via his feeding tube was a top priority for me.  It was one aspect of my life that I felt I could control. I would pump consistently throughout the day and set my alarm to wake up and pump during the night.

At two months old, Trent had open heart surgery.  Up until that time, we were told he would not gain weight due to his heart condition.  We were told he would begin growing like a weed as soon as his heart was fixed.  It didn't happen.

A little more than a week after his surgery, he began vomiting and having diarrhea.  I took him to the doctor and was told to do the clear eletrolyte regimen.  He was fine as long as he drank the electrolyte drink but as soon as I gave him breast milk or the high calorie formula we were substituting with, he went back to being violently ill.  I took him to the ER when he became ashen and extremely lethargic.  He was placed on a helicopter and sent back to the hospital out of state where his surgery had been performed.

The Moment of Hurt

When my husband and I got to the hospital in Louisiana, the ER doctor was waiting for us.  She was young, pretty, and scowling at us.  She looked me in the eye and asked, 

"Have you been feeding your child?"  

Her tone was accusatory. 

Time seemed to stop. The hurt in my heart was immediate.  

Part of me raged. Part of me wanted to verbally, if not physically attack her. If every ounce of strength in my body had not been devoted to pumping, healing my body, worrying constantly, and loving my baby, I would have managed something other a low and weak "yes."  

After my answer, I walked away from her and my usual defense mechanism took hold. I went numb. I went into survival mode, where my emotions become stunted and all processes become automatic. 

Within a few days, it was discovered that Trent had reducing substances in his stool, which led to a diagnosis of Malabsorption Syndrome. The diagnosis cleared any suspicions that I had been starving my precious baby.  He was placed on an Amino Acid formula and he began healing and growing. 

That young, pretty, scowling doctor?

To her, I would like to say:

I know you have seen horrors in the course of your job. 
I know there are parents who are capable of starving their child, especially a child with a lifelong diagnosis. 
I know Trent's condition looked suspicious when he arrived.
I know that you weren't aware that my incision was infected, or that I was so obsessed with giving Trent breast milk that when my supply took a dive for a week, I "massaged" my breasts so hard that I left bruise marks on them.  
You weren't aware that I wept when I pumped but only a produced a few ounces.  
You did not know that my dear husband encouraged me to skip pumping sessions at night so that I could get more sleep, but I refused for fear of losing my supply. 
You did not know that my husband gently swabbed my incision several times a day with iodine as the worry etched his face with deep lines. 
You certainly did not that he and I were falling in love with each other all over again because we were going through hell together, and that we found our strongest faith and comfort in each other. 

There was no way you could have known that if Trent died, I feared I would die along with him. 

There was only one thing you could, and should have, known:
 
Your question, with the accusation of it so clear, had the ability to cut me to the core.  

You should have known that no matter how many people praised me for what they saw as courage; no matter how many people told me they admired me, your words had the power to break all of that in one moment of hurt.  

I wish you had held your tongue until the tests had been ran. 

I wish you had considered for one damn moment that if I was the kind of mother that loved her child with all her heart and burned with the desire for him to live and thrive, your words would be poison to everything inside of me.  

I wish you had checked up on his case a few days later and came to our room. 
I didn't want or need an apology (though it would have been nice), but I craved validation. 

You could have said,  "I'm glad the Malabsorption Syndrome was discovered in time and he is now recovering." 

That would have been enough and I would have forgiven you.  

But you didn't.  I never saw you again. 

Every so often, I remember that moment.  I feel rage,
then I feel hurt.