Baby Love (9 page)

Glen was extremely upset: This is how she treats you, even when you’re pregnant?

Between him and my father, who wrote my mother a letter saying that as parents it is their job to be proud of my accomplishments rather than undermine my livelihood, I managed to keep it relatively together, but it hasn’t been easy.

I keep asking myself, If she’s not able to put the needs of the baby first when he’s inside of me, how is she going to do that when he’s a walking, talking little boy?

Went with Glen to see his teacher, a high lama from Tibet who escaped by crossing the Himalayas on foot after the Chinese occupiers murdered his father. I always love going to see Khenpo, but given the last few days, it was even more special, like entering another dimension, a surreal world beyond the realm of explanation. He fed us huge beef ribs, the biggest I have ever seen, that he ate with a gigantic knife, expertly paring the meat away from the bone. Then we drank bone soup, which is supposed to be good for physical strength and heating up the body, but which made me want to throw up.

I can barely understand Khenpo when he talks, but Glen gets every word, and the two of them and another lama from Bhutan sat around telling jokes and laughing. I was so tired I had to go into another room to lie down, but I could hear them all the way upstairs and felt comforted, like I was in a pure land and the laughter of the dharma deities was my lullaby.

When we left, I asked Khenpo to bless the baby in my belly. He tapped my stomach and laughed. Bless the baby yourself! At first I was put off, then I realized it was his way of telling me I am as much a deity as he is, and that I shouldn’t idealize him and deprecate myself. I have the power to bless my own baby.

I am at Alta Bates hospital in Berkeley, trying not to freak out. Last night I ate steak and spinach and salad and mint chocolate chip ice cream, and then got an awful pain in my stomach, like someone had taken a knife and stuck it into my gut. When I couldn’t take it anymore, I called an ambulance and hobbled downstairs. By the time they got to the building, I was on the sidewalk on my hands and knees, doubled over with pain.

I crawled in the back and told the EMTs my blood type, doctor’s name, and that I am four months into a normal pregnancy. The EMT, whom I expected to, I don’t know, take my temperature or something, looked at me and said she didn’t believe I was actually sick. She said that if I were in as much pain as I said I was, I would be perspiring, or at least breathing heavily, and there were no signs of either, which made her skeptical.

I was like, um, are you kidding me? You think I just wanted to come and get into an ambulance for fun? And then she said, Well, ma’am, are you sure you aren’t involved in a domestic dispute? My jaw dropped open almost to Chile. Then she changed course and asked if I had been taking drugs.

Fortunately, Glen drove up behind the ambulance at that moment, and I told the EMT to let me out. Unbelievably, she started saying all of this crazy stuff like they couldn’t just let me go, I had to sign something and blah, blah, blah, which seemed absurd, considering she had just told me there was nothing wrong with me.

When we finally arrived at the emergency room, a nice intern checked my vitals and then rolled in a portable ultrasound. After a few seconds of searching, I heard the baby’s heartbeat and then the intern say the baby looks fine before bursting into uncontrollable sobs on the gurney. Talk about drama. I had been lying there thinking that I would rather die than lose the baby, and if I had to die to save him, that would be okay.

I didn’t have to try to feel that way. There was no ambivalence, no inkling of possible relief at being let off the hook. I knew the truth of this as intimately as I knew my own name: My child must live. Period. End of story. Done.

Dr. Lowen arrived. The pain had subsided a little, and we were all close to letting it go as one of those crazy, bizarre moments in a pregnancy. But just as the intern started to fill out the release form, the pain started again, stronger than ever, and that’s when they started talking about a morphine drip for the pain. At that point I would have injected orange juice into my veins if they told me it would stop the pain, but morphine? I had visions of my baby emerging from the womb incoherent and addicted to opiates. As if reading my mind, Dr. Lowen said that it was relatively safe, and that sometimes during pregnancy you have to prioritize the mother’s health. I nodded skeptically as the intern injected the needle in my arm.

I was admitted just as I fell into an opium-induced haze, and now here I am, the next morning, with a second IV in my arm and doctors coming in and out trying to figure out what’s wrong with me. I keep suggesting to them that it’s intestinal. I’ve been taking those giant iron tablets and eating ridiculous, absurd amounts of food. So far the internist and Dr. Lowen both say that the pain would be lower if it was intestinal.

Whatever it is, I am really happy to have this drip.

The perinatologist came in today. She said that even though my blood and urine look normal, the location of the pain suggests a possible kidney infection. She recommended a baby-safe antibiotic. I will get it through the IV for the first two days and if the pain decreases, I can take the last dose at home. I asked her three times about the effects of the antibiotics on the baby, and if there were
any
studies that even hinted at adverse effects on the infant. Then I quizzed her on the morphine. She was very nice and assured me that both were okay. Not ideal, but okay. I asked her if she thought it might be intestinal. She didn’t think so.

Glen came in just as she was leaving, with big bags of food. I dished it out on my pale green laminated tray, and poured us both some lemonade. I don’t know what I would do without him. What do people do without other people? Why is it that so few people are competent in the caretaking department? I feel like the luckiest woman alive to have him sitting with me, going over the details of my conversation with the doctor as if his life depended on it, too.

I am concerned, but I’m also not so into being in the hospital. I have never felt comfortable with using Western medicine exclusively, which explains the small army of healers I have assembled over the years. I am especially not happy with the way the doctors dismiss my opinion of what might be wrong with me. Glen agrees it is hard to have faith in a place where people come in with one thing and then die from something else, but he thinks we should wait and see.

I want to call Marie, the M.D. homeopath, but (a) she’s in Alaska, and (b) it might be dangerous to mix the systems. If Marie tells me to take something, then I will have to figure out how it interacts with what I am getting here; if she has a different diagnosis, all of the doctors will be in disagreement, and I will be lying in my hospital bed betwixt and between, not sure what to do. Better to take this train to the end and then try the other if it doesn’t kill me.

The only thing that makes staying bearable is the nurse coming in every two hours to check the baby. It’s like having my own personal Doppler. I hear his quick little heartbeat, whoosh-whoosh, whoosh-whoosh, several times a day, and into the night.

Fantastic.

The antibiotic has caused some kind of freak reaction. My white and red blood cell counts have plummeted, ditto for the hemoglobin. I now have acute, medication-induced anemia. The perinatologist came in, scratched her head, and I haven’t seen her since. For some unknown reason, an infectious-disease doctor took her place, and she thinks we should discontinue the first baby-safe antibiotic and try a different one. As far as I can tell, there still isn’t any indication in my blood tests that I have a kidney infection, but the pain hasn’t let up and, well, it seems to be the only thing they can think of.

I asked the infectious-disease person if she thought it could be intestinal and she shook her head. She was very nice, too—slow, methodical, and seemingly knowledgeable. But when I asked her why she, an infectious-disease person, was put on my case, she didn’t have a good answer, and that sounded alarm number 9,000.

Glen, exhausted from trying to get a good night’s sleep on a coat rack disguised as a daybed, looked over at me after she left and asked what I thought. I said, I think all of these people are crazy and I should call Marie. And then a nurse walked in the door with the new medicine and started hooking it up to the IV.

Well, I have been here four days and don’t have a diagnosis. The pain ebbed slightly today, but when one of the nurses opined that I might not need the morphine drip, I panicked. It hasn’t ebbed that much.

I have come to the conclusion that hospitals are not places for healing. The food is awful, the environment depressing, and the constant intrusion of the nurses makes resting almost impossible. I know I should be grateful that I have health care at all and insurance to pay for it, but it’s hard when just as I am about to doze off, a nurse comes in to take my vitals.

Glen brought me some scarves to toss around the place, so I climbed out of bed this morning and walked around the room with my IV pole trailing behind me, “decorating.” Now my bed has a beautiful pale green cloth over it, and the faded Seurat and Monet prints are all covered with gold and burgundy. I put the lilies Glen brought me on the little table next to the bed, and my books and laptop on the swiveling tabletop I’m using as a desk. Now I am sitting here typing in my favorite sea-green robe with pale pink flowers, and feeling a little more relaxed, like a part of home has been magically transported to the hospital.

A few minutes ago, my father and stepmother called. They were each on different phones in their apartment, asking questions and extracting new information. They’re worried and want to know if they should come out. Judy says she can make chicken soup, and my father says he can just sit in the hospital with me. Neither of them can understand why my mother, who lives nearby, hasn’t come to see me.

After our last encounter, I can’t say I am in a hurry to see her. What I can say is that I have to focus on cultivating relationships with people who have the ability to love me the way I need to be loved.

Not just for my sake, but for the baby’s.

I have got to get out of here. I am getting progressively worse, not better, and when I asked one of the doctors this morning how much this little visit is costing he couldn’t say exactly, but somewhere in the ballpark of five to seven thousand dollars a day. Could that explain why there is no real hurry to release me? Is that cynical or savvy?

A little while ago, a hematologist came in and told me he was surprised to see me looking so well because according to my blood counts, I should be close to unconscious. Then he started talking about the point at which we should talk about scheduling a transfusion. Transfusion? Glen and I nodded along with him, but the moment he left I told Glen that it was time to go. I’ve lost all faith in this place, and I feel strongly that I have to get out while I can. The anemia is acute, but I can treat that at home with beef, spinach, and even iron shots, if necessary. The pain has lessened somewhat, and if I can take two or three Tylenol every few hours, I think I can manage.

Our plan for getting out is to tell each and every doctor and nurse that comes in that I plan to leave tomorrow and that they should either tell me why that isn’t possible, or start making preparations for me to leave.

We also called Marie, who said it sounded intestinal, especially in light of the fact that I have been taking the iron capsules (!!!). She instructed me to switch to a liquid diet and get the nurse to give me a laxative.

Glen went to get soup and I put in my request for a laxative, telling the nurse in the same breath that I am going home tomorrow. She said she would contact the doctor about the laxative and that she doubts very much that I will be able to leave tomorrow as there is no indication of it in my chart.

 

 

I JUST TALKED to the last doctor that had to be convinced and she finally, reluctantly, said I could leave. Not that I gave her any choice.
I am leaving tomorrow
has been my mantra since ten-thirty this morning, and as of about forty-five minutes ago, when the nurses confirmed that they finally got in touch with my doctors, it seems to be working.

At two o’clock I still wasn’t sure. One of the residents came in and told me she wasn’t comfortable releasing me because my pain wasn’t completely gone and my blood counts were so low. I was like, hello, I agree with you on how upsetting and strange this all is, I just don’t agree that staying is going to turn it around because if it was, wouldn’t it have already? I stayed calm and didn’t say anything because she started talking about giving me an AMA, which Glen explained is a slip that says I have left the hospital “against medical advice.” I would have to sign it and clear the hospital of any liability should something happen to me after I leave.

The news that the only thing standing between the hospital and my release is a signature was a tremendous relief, and I was ready to sign right then and there. But after she left, Glen told me that sometimes insurance companies look unfavorably at patients who leave AMA, and could do anything from raise my premium to refuse to continue my insurance at the end of the term. I am aghast but so exhausted and weak that the most I can do is shake my head in disbelief. My will to ask a lot of questions about how that can be legally possible and whether or not most people know this is just gone.

Anyway, I don’t want to go on a whole bender against the health-care system. I’ve been sick in places where there are no doctors and no hospitals, and that was beyond horrendous, but my goodness. It’s like the old Gil Scott-Heron song about people walking on the moon while his sister is living in a tenement and getting bitten by rats.