Part Five: The Week From Hell – Thursday 10/8

I got to the hospital around 8-ish on that Thursday morning – and by God, I was so damn tired of the drive by now – and retreated to the nesting room with our sweet son (DH was back at work, but would take tomorrow off if he was to be released). This morning, for me, the little one wasn’t his usual peaceful self. I think he was having issues with the antibiotics, as had been my thought from the first day they pushed them.

Saw the Ped this morning. He explained away pushing the morphine, saying that the dose wasn’t enough to cause problems. I expressed the fact that we were NOT happy about it, especially after yesterday's assurances that he wouldn't do morphine. Ped's response was essentially “meh” – we weren’t here to see it and he was (supposedly), and it was his call, and he was going to continue with the morphine protocol. He did his residency at Johns Hopkins, eh? How low did he graduate to land himself this shitty spot?

No wonder hospitalists have such crappy reputations.

The poor baby. I never understood why he had these horrible scores any time we weren’t there. I believe they use the NIDCAP assessment; whatever they used, it is completely subjective; if the nurse has no patience, and doesn’t have time to deal with a needy baby, then yeah – she’s going to mark him up. The Boy got dinged yesterday (10/7, morphine day) for the most bizarre stuff that the succeeding shift scratched their heads on.

Exhausted from the merry-go-round of the last two weeks, I went off-site to go get some lunch and could hardly see what I was eating. I was heartbroken that The Boy was still on morphine, and pissed that the doctor didn’t seem to give a shit.

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Here is the curse of being an adoptive parent of a newborn in a medical situation: until you leave the premises, handed the child by the hospital and then the facilitator (or whatever the procedure is in your state) and are then, at that moment, the child’s legal guardians, you have NO POWER and NO SAY on anything that happens. You are not consulted, you are not called, you are not advised because it doesn’t matter; the hospital technically is the guardian of the child and adoptive parents are completely powerless, and are essentially privileged visitors.

That was a rude lesson, let me tell you. My fury at that realization sapped whatever energy I had in reserve.

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I went to the bank after lunch because a certain procedure (which I’m not discussing in this post) is not covered by insurance and I needed to get a cashier’s check, as the Ped said he’d do it as soon as I got back. I went to the house where I thought of taking a short nap, when the Ped called me and said to get to the hospital if I wanted it done today, and I said I’d be right there. I gathered the stuff I wanted to get and returned to the hospital.

The drive is only fifteen minutes. Ped was nowhere to be seen. He stood me up! The nurse at the front desk said he got a call and had to go – lunch, she seemed to think. But he just called me, not fifteen minutes ago! What the hell? I was madder than a wet hen. Asshole.

So I stayed; I was going to take a nap at the house but not now. No point. Since the nesting rooms were horribly uncomfortable, I didn’t nap there either. So it was that when DH came after work, I was completely shot (although the good news was that The Boy was taken off the morphine in my absence, a HUGE load off my mind.). We sat with The Boy for about 45 minutes when DH insisted we go downstairs and get something to eat.

It was just as well, as my cell phone went off just as we returned The Boy to the special care area. I think it’s deliberate that there is no cell reception in the nursery, which is fine with me. The last thing anyone needs in there is a damned phone.

Anyway…

I knew it was the facilitator, and I made the conscious decision to not call her back until after I had finished my meal. There wasn’t anything she could want that was that important; HSW had checked on me earlier in the day to make sure I was okay and she reassured me yet again. So whatever F wanted, it couldn’t be too crazy.

So when DH made his call after dinner, I made mine. Long story short, BM had finally told her grandmother what she had done, and grandma wanted pics. Did we have any, and could we sent F some to pass along?

So it was an innocuous, reasonable request, especially with BM grieving (she’s a tough girl, but nobody’s that tough, and I could see where grandma was heartbroken too); no problem. I replied that I would try to get some printed, but it wouldn’t be tonight. I would do my best to get some done. Was it possible to bring some tomorrow at the release (which was still the aim, according to the nurses/Ped)? Possible, but not probable; I was exhausted and I planned on going home then being here early tomorrow to catch Ped one last time in case of a surprise, plus HSW, and the hope of being released earlier rather than later tomorrow. I said I would try.

I went back upstairs to let DH in with my band, and I went home to sleep. He would stay with The Boy for an hour or so past my departure.

Little did I know that tomorrow I would regret acquiescing to F’s seemingly innocent request in my exhaustion.

Up next, the last installment of The Week From Hell, Part Six: Friday (10/9)