It's not often I get the itch to write down anything anymore, beyond the usual monthly baby reports or family visits. But a couple nights ago I came across a story of Candace Owens's nightmarish stay in the hospital with the birth of her second child. She shared this article in her Instagram Stories, which describes how the "hospital mafia descended" on her after her refusal of antibiotics or pitocin during labor; and how after being told she had to stay a full 48 hours, she was threatened with child protective services when she checked herself and her newborn out of the hospital against medical advice. In the next slide she said, "Don't worry. I just about jumped my pediatrician, took my baby and left the hospital." I listened to her tell the story in this podcast episode today, and although I shook my head the whole way through, I can't say I found anything about it surprising.
This really struck a nerve with me, and I haven't been able to stop thinking about it. So I'm going to write down my story for posterity. Here, my loved ones, is the reason that after having two children in a hospital, I had the rest at home. Hint: it's not because deep down I am really a hippie (although, like my husband, I do drive a Subaru and wear Birkenstocks, so maybe an argument could be made😉). Read on if you care to.
When I had Annie in 2009, I had tested positive for Group B strep a few weeks prior, and told at that time I would need to receive antibiotics during labor. However, since my labor was too quick and there had been no time for antibiotics during it, I was told we would need to stay at the hospital a full 48 hours. I had no problem with this.
Annie was a hale and hearty nine pounds even, with a vigorous appetite. But the pediatrician told me that her high birth weight could mean that I had undiagnosed gestational diabetes; thus, they would need to draw her blood before feedings in order to test her blood sugar. I forget how many hours, how many feedings. I balked at this, and it hurts me to remember it even now, how after a feeble argument and a stern talking-to I received in response, I let them cart my perfectly healthy baby away to prick her heel before I fed her. You'll never convince me there was any good reason for that; anyone could look at this baby and see she was healthy. Would they have done it if she had weighed 8 pounds 15 ounces?
I do not believe there was any concerted effort by a "hospital mafia" to make me uncomfortable; after all, I had not defied anyone's authority. I think what happened to me the following day in the wee hours of the morning was just business as usual. The two of us were sleeping soundly for the first time in many hours. I was profoundly exhausted from birth and from nursing her at all hours of the night. Suddenly every florescent light in our room came on one by one and a woman appeared announcing that she would need to draw my blood and the baby's. I looked at a clock. It was 4 a.m. I wish I had told her to go away and come back at 9 at least, but I was exhausted and didn't argue. The phlebotomist quickly did her work and left, leaving me thinking, 'Wow, did that really just happen?'
I think to a certain extent, if either the baby or I had been very sick, I would have no choice but to have to submit to whatever procedures they wanted to do, whatever time they wanted to do it. I might have even been glad to. But to have to put up with this as a healthy mother with a healthy baby, made zero sense to me. I told Tim I was never having another baby in a hospital again, and I meant it.
And now years later, when I showed the Candace Owens story to Tim, he exclaimed, "What was she doing having a baby in the hospital?" Being the way she is, and already knowing the way a hospital is, one would have to wonder. Someone once said, "You buy a hospital ticket, you take a hospital ride." And yet, women should be able to give birth in the hospital without having to forfeit their freedom and their say in any matter. After all, most do not have other options. Owens is far from being the first, but I am glad to see someone with her kind of clout shining a light on the intimidation and abuses of power that regularly go on inside these institutions.
When Annie was two, I had another run-in with a hospital. After being advised by a nurse on the Tricare hotline who listened to her breathe, I took her to the emergency room. After being treated there, she was transferred to another hospital an hour away. By then she was breathing well, but the ER doctor made this decision out of an abundance of caution. It seemed to me that the team at the children's hospital there went on treating her as if she were very sick long after she stopped showing signs of being sick. But what do I know, I'm just a mom, I didn't go to medical school. However, I began to feel strongly that just being in that setting was doing her more harm than good, and it was time for us to go home. I would have understood that this is something we had to endure -- yes, with Tim deployed, without family to help, and far from what support system I did have -- if that's what it took, if the child was really in danger. I knew this was not the case. But when a nurse overheard me mention to Tim on the phone that I was considering checking her out AMA if they tried to keep us another night, she gave me this warning: "Just so you know, when a child is checked out AMA, we do have to involve child protective services."
Unlike Owens, I am not someone who can just laugh this off. I don't think a horse tranquilizer could have settled me down any faster than those words. Child protective services? You mean the people who come take your kids away and then ask questions? I had read the stories. I decided to shut up, keep my head down, and do whatever it took to keep my family together. We were discharged that afternoon as it turned out, and Annie has never had a problem since. I still think I did the right thing, taking her to the emergency room; I'm just not sure that what took place over the ensuing 24 hours really needed to happen the way it did.
I can honestly say that the only times I have felt truly terrified and powerless as a parent, have been in a hospital setting. It's like being sucked into a machine, and you're at its mercy up to the minute it removes your hep-lock, spits you out, and forgets you exist. I really feel for the families whose children really are sick and, but I'm sure that knowing your child is being helped makes it easier to comply with all of the hospital's dictates. I can only hope.
After expressing how little trust I have in the medical establishment, I will say that, paradoxically, they could very well be the ones to save my life one day, or Tim's, or one of the kids.' They have a skill set that is indispensable in an actual crisis. I really think that is the key: it has to be a crisis. They have a tendency to treat non-threatening situations as threatening, and healthy people like sick people, which in practice kind of makes them bullies. And since I don't want to have to fend off bullies when I am either in labor in a vulnerable postpartum state, then I have chosen as a healthy woman having a healthy baby, to stay at home. I know where to find them if I need them. Furthermore, Tim and I carefully weigh the decision to go to the hospital for any reason, and pray to always get it right. If we don't already have a real crisis on our hands, we might once we go through those doors.
No comments:
Post a Comment