The Palace Park

The Palace Park

Tuesday, 19 January 2010

Set 'em up Joe, and play walking the floor

Where is a jukebox when you need one?



Things just weren't getting better in the UTI  department, Fang, so Sunday night I packed myself off to the North Mid (again).  Well, I swore at your father, said some pretty mean things, cried, peed blood, tore at my hair for a few hours and then, then I packed myself off to Hospital.  I know, I know.  Drama. 

The hives, they are just stress but the infection got worse. A fever set in, chills set in, and other syptoms that all had gone even further awry were flicked on like lights at last call.  We took the maternity bag and your dad drove like champ to the Hospital where we were seen rather more quickly than either of us thought.  A round of antibiotics was started straight away by IV once they caught sight of my most recent sample, a murky mixture of high proteins and blood that made even the Dr recoil a bit bemused horror. 


It was decided I would initially be admitted for 24 hours and sent down to the Ante-Natal ward. I had mixed feelings about this: the Ante-Natal ward is a mixed ward of 4 beds to a room, all women who've just given birth or are wounded penguins like me.  I kind of wanted to see what the ward was like to gauge if I was going to cough up the £60/a night it costs for a private room on the floor. 


My vindication point? When your papa turned to me and said 'I am so, so sorry. You were right and I should have listened to you. You WERE ill.'  That he didn't accuse me of being pregnant crazy (a theme) or do anything else then other than just hug me, well that was just pure love.



After being administered with a drip and antibiotics, we moved upstairs via a super-secret elevator (turns out this is to deter baby thieves) and I bedded down for the night with all the other wounded birds.



My roommates were two lovely Turkish women, one of whom had gone into labor early and had been injected with something to stop that silliness and the other who had given birth on Saturday, as well as a very young Jamaican girl who was screaming 'Oh, God! Oh, God, Oh, God. . . the baby IS coming. I'm telling you. . .' a litany that would become her mantra over the next 8 hours.  In fairness, even the people in a private room heard her, so I don't know that we'll be going that route, unless we have to stay longer than a couple of days. 

The end result to that little story that, yes, her baby was indeed coming. She projectile vomited on the floor (my side of the floor, mind you, all under my curtain and on the back of the chair, poor lamb) and tried to get out of bed.  She made it to the floor before the baby started crowning.   I ran to the front desk. 'Hi, sorry. . . the young woman who was ill earlier? She's in labour.'


'You don't know what you're talking about. Get back to bed.' 


'No, really. She's crowning. And she's just pooped on the floor.' 


'That girl! What do you mean, she's pooped on the floor?! Why didn't she use the toilet?! Bah!.'


'Um, because she's in labour?!'


'GO BACK TO BED.'


I go back to my bed in shock. Get to the room to find one of the turkish women standing in front of the tiny slip of a thing in horror. 'Where is help? Did you get help?'  I shake my head, pull my emergency alarm cord, and rush over to the other side (like I'm going to help deliver the baby, right? Me, the woman who doesn't even like to open tins of wet dog food. I mean seriously. . . ) And there is a baby, coming and coming and I find myself start to kneel down in front of the girl and am saying over and over again, 'It will be okay, it will be okay,' when one of the nice midwives comes rushing in. 


4 minutes later, it is over and one of the midwives is wrestling with her placenta (the girl -- she's 18 if she's a day -- is back in bed now) and then tells the young woman 'Well, you need to get up and get yourself cleaned up. You've made a mess of this room twice tonight.' 


I'm not even joking.


Your dad looked so sad and frightened when he left and I wanted to run after him and a) comfort him and b) well, to be honest, there was no 'B'. Fanglet, I was freaking addled.  Since Tuesday, I've slept maybe 3 hours a night? I was a wreck, unable to function without crying. Unable to do LAUNDRY. The laundry TAUNTED me. Monday night I didn't sleep any better, but I did get three solid naps of an hour each in today and even that little bit of sleep made a huge difference. And last night: we slept 5.5 straight hours. In one go. Bliss. 


And yes, I am still taking my crazy pills so the world is on an even keel except that it is FUCKING UPSIDE DOWN!



Fang: sleep makes a huge difference. Sleep on a crazily adjustable bed where I can sleep like a worm all disjointed and crazy is even better. 


The rest of the time here has like a farce. Truly.  The bonding, the POW camp air of the inmates. It actually kind of reminds me of Hogan's Heroes, this great sitcom from the 1960s when I'm not frothing with resentment and anger.



And the baby born on the floor was a little girl and she and her mum are doing very well.  The mom is in shock but doing very well.  And the evening midwives appear to have forgiven me for asking them to come and give her a hand. Either that, or they have just spit in my herbal tea.  But I make them laugh and they'll remember me, which could work either way.


There is a rumour they may spring us today. One can but hope. . . one can but hope.

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