The Downward Spiral - Part 2

I woke up to Rumi’s shrieks. No one warns you how terrible that first howling can feel. A helplessness and an extreme desire to protect can overcome you, leaving you unsettled. They were looking for a vein in the poor baby’s hands, arms, feet. Probing and poking. They didn’t explain what they were doing. And the otherwise overconfident me, felt too tiny to ask. I thought they were doing what needed doing and it wasn’t my place to ask. 

(So much for all the reading and preparing I had done. When the time came to apply my learnings, it was like someone said "statue" and there I was, stuck).

Since when did the healthcare system have more power over the decisions for my own child than I did? Well, to a newly born parent of only a few hours, silence seemed like the only option.

Turns out they were trying to get blood for a culture test to rule out an infection. Rumi’s temperature hadn’t yet normalised. What followed was a flurry of nurses and fast paced conversations. 

I don't know what it was - the hormones, the extreme pleasure that I was feeling, or my general optimistic way of being. But I didn't register the intensity of what was happening. It didn’t even occur to me as they put Rumi on a stretcher and me on a wheelchair and wheeled us to an ambulance. Nor when they took us up to the NICU at the Royal Columbian Hospital (RCH). Nor when they put Rumi in an incubator and proceeded to probe and poke him again. 

My fantastic brain, convinced that they would shortly tell me that everything was okay, was preparing to go back home.

The nurse at RCH told me that Rumi’s foot was still bleeding from the prick at Peace Arch many hours ago. This made me so angry, I wanted to cry. It didn’t help that I was in the worst pain ever. I could barely sit on the sofa that was opposite Rumi’s bassinet in the NICU. 

I had remembered to carry my soft blanket with me and even with it beneath me, the pain was excruciating. But in that moment, I couldn’t think of leaving or going someplace more comfortable. Truth be told, there was no place more comfortable than next to my baby.

The next thing I know the nurse had put in an IV for Rumi - without any discussion or conversation with me. And they had started a round of antibiotics. I don’t know what the concept of consent looks like in Canada but this felt wrong. I was in my state of silence - something I couldn’t shake out of for a long time. And I didn’t question. Somewhere I knew if I asked a question I would break down into tears and the pride in me didn’t allow me to do that. 

Who taught us that crying was bad? That showing that we hurt or were scared would make us brittle? 

I taught so many people that vulnerability was powerful. Especially at CORE. I thought of myself as an expert at breaking down people’s walls and getting them to communicate. But even the smartest, most rational person reverts to their childhood fears. When unanticipated trauma hits, we end up using our most stunted tools to cope. 

I was in the middle of trauma worse than I have ever experienced before. And, I had no clue that I was actually undergoing something difficult. Defence mechanisms are a blast. 

The nurse came to me and told me they had started antibiotics and they would keep Rumi in the NICU for now. 

At this point, my mom was standing outside the NICU. Lohit was sitting in the car. They had strategised on their way to RCH. They concluded that it was best for mom to come up first since they may not allow two people in at this hospital. If they allowed the Doula first, Lohit could always push his way through later since he was the father. 

Back at Peace Arch, we had a few minutes before getting into the ambulance. I told mom to ask Angad and Pearl (my brother and sister-in-law) to drive to the hospital so they could get a glance at Rumi before we drove away. And so they met little Rumi as he was being lifted from the ground into the ambulance. They both saw his hand rise and we had a good laugh about how he had waved at them. 

(Even in the middle of terrible stress, my family finds a way to find joy. We get this from my mother. Her attitude of moving on and focusing on solutions has sometimes meant that we shove things under the rug, yet it has allowed us to survive the worst traumas with a smile on our face.)

As Lohit sat with Angad and Pearl in the car, and mom stood outside the NICU, the nurse came back to me. She asked if I would like to go up to Maternity and finish my admission formalities. I declined. This was a visceral reaction. How could she ask me to leave my little baby alone? 

I don’t know how nature does it. But I was like a mama bear, protecting her little cub. And I would have torn anyone apart that tried to separate us. 

The nurse asked me if I wanted to help change his diaper or try to calm him down. I looked at her clueless. How was I to do that? I had had zero moments to learn or try any of this. And mom was to be around to handhold me through this. I said "no, why don’t you do it and I will watch". 

Even to stand next to the bassinet and watch was such agony. Every part of me hurt. But scared of judgement, I stood up and watched as I winced in pain. All the while, I wondered, had I not stood, what would the nurse think of my choice to sit on the side? Would that make me a bad mother? 

How does the mind become so convoluted? 

While I sat there they asked me if I wanted him to have a pacifier since he was crying as they inserted the IV etc. I said no. I felt their disapproval. I rescinded my decision when the next nurse told me that the baby would be in pain if they didn’t give the pacifier. Lost, scared and utterly confused, I said okay. And then felt guilt wash over me. I had read it would be bad for his gums, it could cause issues with breastfeeding. I also didn’t want him in pain. I felt guilty for not being able to soothe him and needing an artificial thing to calm him instead. All these thoughts were ebbing and flowing quicker than I could process. I was being led by a cast of people I had never met before and I felt alone and vulnerable. 

Next up they asked me if I wanted to feed him. I said yes. I thought it would be easy like it was the night before. (The first time they put Rumi on my chest, he had quickly latched and fed peacefully.) I also thought it would calm him and help me feel better. I couldn’t have been more wrong. 

Feeding in a room full of strangers with wires and beeping is an experience in itself. Add to that a newborn with an IV attached to his foot and a new mom with very little hands-on experience. And there you have it - a recipe for stress. He wouldn't feed, instead he simply cried. The nurse asked me if she could take him and try something else. She gave him a pacifier and it seemed to work. In retrospect, I know it was only temporary. 

Having found a moment to think when he finally seemed calm, I asked the nurse if I could go and get myself admitted. She said yes, almost giving me the expression that said "finally you have come to your senses". 

Mom wheeled me to the third floor to maternity. There, waiting for us, was some more unnerving news. They didn't have a single room. We could either be in a ward or in a twin sharing room. Being in a room with another labouring mom isn't my idea of fun on any day. But it felt especially cruel after I had spent a full day enduring labour. Why should I have to stay awake listening to another mama go through that? 

And to do so in a pandemic is a whole different level of difficult. 

What if the others in the room weren't as careful as we were? What if they weren't washing their hands enough? How about sharing a loo? How does one manage cleaning a tear and taking care of oneself in a shared space without even a shower? Where does one even leave their belongings as you trek up and down from the NICU to feed baby Rumi? 

Strange problems. My problems were trivial compared to the conditions in which many women have to give birth in the world. 

But historical luxury and privilege had left me unprepared. Especially for what was up ahead.