.
Getting my baby out of the hospital was like making a jail break.The first “guard” was an intern.
“Ma’m you can go but the baby has to stay”.
“Why”?
“Well, it’s a medical condition”.
“Which is”?
“I’m not sure I can explain it to you”.
He didn’t bother to read my chart; he had no idea where I was from. To him I was just a stupid country woman.
“Try.”
“Well, you see, she’s slightly jaundiced,” looking at me wondering if it were worth the effort to explain it to me.
“That means she’s slightly yellowed. I don’t know if you can see it in her skin but you can see it in the white’s of her eyes.” Still peering at me, “You know the part that has no color?”
“And?"
“Well, she’s not totally healthy so we can’t release her. But you can come and visit and nurse her.”
They’d already wrecked her schedule. I’d hear her crying in the nursery. It would go on and on. It would get more and more serious, more and more demanding. I’d stand outside the nursery window, heartbroken, feeling, in some way, a sense that I had betrayed this child. I wasn’t allowed in there. I tried to speak to a nurse, one of the nice ones who, when she could, would pick my baby up and cuddle her to try to give her some comfort. She was an empathetic nurse, but young and glad to have this job. She was not going to jeopardize it because we both knew what was wrong. My baby cried for hours because she was hungry. When the nurses finally completed all their required tasks, they had about half an hour or so before it was time to bring the babies to their mommies for nursing. By now, this squalling baby was really getting to them. How could they enjoy their coffee with that wailing in the background? One of them would grab her up and give her a bottle of sugar water. My baby stopped crying. “Girl baby 602” also lost the edge of her hunger.
Twenty minutes later they’d bring the warm sweet smelling bundle to me to nurse. My cuddly, perfect baby was so happy to see me. We played and talked and I sang as she cooed, but my tiny girl wasn’t interested in nursing. She’d just had the equivalent of a bottle of Pepsi and there were more interesting things to do; her fingers to be kissed, toes to be tickled, mommy’s hair to be grabbed, a different room to be looked at. Later they’d send the social worker in again to show me the correct way to nurse. The social worker was annoyed.
At this hospital there were two major rules. You had natural childbirth, a rule I had broken because it was considered a “high risk” pregnancy and required a C-section. Back then, if you had your first baby that way, they wouldn’t let you try natural the next time. This, of course, was my fault. The other rule was you nursed your baby and it didn’t seem to be working. That too was my fault.
Anyone who worked at the hospital, except, perhaps, for the women who washed the floors, had been to college and they all believed country women were stupid. They referred to them as “cows”. They didn’t know the “cows” could hear them, but they didn’t even try not to be heard. Eventually, my precious child was taken from me and sent back to the nursery. I could hear their conversation.
“She didn't nurse again”.
“What’s wrong with that woman? It’s not as though it’s a difficult thing.”
“That baby will be screaming again later”.
“I’ll be off shift by then, let them deal with it.”
So girl “Girl Baby 602” was jaundiced. I already knew that. I had heard the nurses talking about it in front of me as though I didn’t even exist. I was in the hospital and there was no such thing as a computer then, but I was determined. I managed to find out by asking a question or two, here and there, so they wouldn’t suspect I was actually gathering information about what was wrong, what caused it and what would cure it.
It was Vitamin A and D.
My baby was not nursing and she spent her life under fluorescent lights. What she needed was milk and sunshine. I knew that. The “almost” doctor didn’t know I knew.
“So what will you do for her if I leave her here?”
“Well, we’ll probably supplement your nursing with a bottle.”
“Is that better than pure nursing?”
“Unfortunately no”.
“And what else will you do for her?”
“What else?” looking puzzled. “Well, that’s about all”.
“Doesn’t she need sun”?
Surprised, “Of course, sun would be the best thing for her. It would probably clear up the condition very quickly.” He was pleased that I had understood but immediately saw that he had made a big mistake blurting that out to me.
“But you won’t give her sun.”
“Uh, well, we . . . I mean it would be good but, the nurses are busy and we can’t let them take her outside in any case”.
“If I take her home, I can nurse her and sit out in the sun with her.”
“But, you can’t. I mean, you haven’t been able to nurse properly yet,” he muttered, looking through the chart at the social worker’s scratchings.
“So, I can supplement her with a bottle.”
“Umm, yeah, I mean yes you can but she’s not healthy, we can’t release her.”
“I’m taking her.”
“I’ll be right back.”
I had already phoned my husband. “Come and get me, now!” I knew it was a 45 minute ride and he wouldn’t take me seriously now anymore than he ever did, so I made the call long before I started with the doctors.
Now “almost-doctor #2”, a resident, came in.
“What’s this nonsense about taking the baby home?” He started on the offensive, offensively.
“It’s not nonsense. I’m her mother. I’m leaving and I’m not leaving without her.
I can nurse her and keep her in the sun. It’s July. She should be outside in the warm sunlight.”
“Well, it will have to be AMA.”
He thought he had me there. Most of “the cows” couldn’t speak the language much less acronyms.
“Where do I sign?”
“You realize what this means don’t you?” he said officiously.
“Yes.”
“You understand what A-M-A is?”
“It means Against Medical Advice. I know what it is and I don’t believe your advice is worth anything. By your own admission, I can do more for my baby at home than you can here.”
“Well, that may be but you’re not qualified.”
“Qualified? I’m her mother. I gave her life. I can certainly sit in the sun with her. Will you”?
Shocked at the thought, “Of course not, I’m a Doctor!” (I could hear the capital letter in his voice).
“Actually, you’re not. You’re a resident. Take this form and let me out of here.”
“Just wait a minute.”
Now the big guns were being hauled in.
By this time dear old dad had wandered through. He wasn’t much interested. After all, I had produced a girl. The first one was a boy. That was cause for celebration, but a girl? Well, he really didn’t much care, except that making trips back and forth to and from the hospital just for the two of us was annoying. I told him to go to the parking lot, get the car and bring it around.
Head of OB/GYN entered, a nurse following him like an acolyte. He was a big man, tall and large. He reached for my chart. Looking through it, “What’s the problem here?”
He liked me. Almost two years ago I had my first child and went through natural childbirth for 23 misery filled hours until the fetal heart beat slowed. Emergency C-section. He remembered me from then. I didn’t complain about the pain. I was up and walking around before the “regular” birth moms were. He was always coming into the day-room and pointing this out to them. I was a real trouper as far as he was concerned.
The now very nervous resident mumbled, “The baby is slightly jaundiced and she insists on taking her home.”
“You’ve explained?”
“Of course sir.” He almost saluted.
Big doctor turned to me. “What’s the problem?”
“I just believe,” smiling obsequiously up at him, “if I take her home I can nurse her on her schedule and spend hours in the sunlight with her.” Almost gagging I realized I’d fluttered my eye-lids at Big Doc.
“That’s just what she needs,” he was proud of me, once again his star patient. He turned to the resident, “So what’s the problem?”
“She’ll have to leave AMA, sir.”
“Have you given her the form?”
“Yes sir, I have.”
“Did she sign it?”
“Yes sir, she did.”
He reached out and shook my hand. “It's always a pleasure to have you here. We tied you up I see, so I won’t be seeing you again. Have a good life.” He winked at me and left.
I grabbed my precious child and ran out of there. They chased me down the hall with a wheel-chair to which I succumbed. As I was pushed toward the door, I felt I was hurtling toward the finish line. We were free!
On the way home we had to stop to fill a prescription. Grumblings from dad, “We were right there in the hospital, why couldn’t you have taken care of this then?”
“It would have cost more than twice as much.” This he understood. His parents had paid the hospital costs for the first one and it was worth it because I had produced a son. They didn’t see why another child was necessary and then it turned out to be a girl. We would have to pay for this one.
I was alone in the car with my precious baby girl, the girl I had so wanted. As I smiled down at the exquisite face, and she looked up at me, the horror of what I had done began to dawn on me. I had brought another woman into this world. This world that hated women; that gave them as hard a time as possible; the world that devalued them and objectified them and expected them to do everything better and for less and to smile while doing it.
She peered up at me with those penetrating yet trusting eyes and I made my decision. Not this one, I swore. You can’t have this one.
“Don’t worry. I’ll get you ready. You’ll be able to battle them. I promise.”
