Dispatch from the field:
Drie and I have spent the past day and a half in the Sanpete Valley Hospital. Though our seventh child, a wee lass by the name of Anwyn Iza, was born well and happy on the night of the first, her mom retained enough placenta to keep us on our toes for the past few days until it finally went septic.
Unfortunately for us and our ‘bronze-step’ but still oh-so-expensive insurance, the decision was taken at one o’clock at night when it turned automatically into an “emergency” situation by classification of what was open at that hour. Nevertheless, we weren’t going to stick by our original plan and wait ‘til the morning at that point.
She was admitted to the hospital. Our old friend, the doctor who took care of Drie when she had a difficult miscarriage back in February of ’02, Dr. Cole, called in a prescription of nasty-ass intravenous antibiotics until the break of day when he’d be in to figure out the rest. By that time, it was about five in the morning, and I don’t think either of us got a wink of sleep.
The day was eaten up by tests, poking, prodding and much waiting. Little Anwyn didn’t mind it at all- she had her mom all to her self and her adoring brothers and sisters were at a distance where she didn’t have be poked and prodded by anybody at all.
Finally, the decision was taken by all that it would be better to have the resident surgeon do the hysteroscopy and d&c instead of the OBGYN. A uterus that’s just been through its seventh big job can be a little thin and delicate for someone scraping and poking around blindly, so Dr. Cole was rightly a little nervous. We waited until Dr. Hansen, the surgeon, had an opening in his day at around five. We suddenly pathetically realized that we could inquire of a nurse after a breast pump so that little Anwyn wouldn’t have to wait the whole five or six hours afterwards to eat to avoid the same sort of anesthetic and narcotics that Drie was about to go through.
While the nurses waited to drag poor Drie to the cutter, she madly pumped a miniature bottle full of milk and was whisked off to her boon and doom. No sooner had the nurses deposited the bottle in the fridge, when Anwyn decided it was time for her supper.
Though she had finished her dinner no more than twenty minutes before, we spent the time arguing back and forth between us over conservation of the precious resource at hand. She inevitably won each warm-hearted exchange, and by the time Drie was wheeled back from her surgery in a drugged stupor, the half-pint bottle of gold was near gone.
Drie emerged from the fog in her usual good-natured manner, asking how everything had gone and how Anwyn and I had passed the time. Her surgery had gone well, if unexpectedly, and she had lost more than a couple of pints of blood and the “reproductive remains” of placenta left over a quarter of her uterine wall. It was a good thing that Dr. Hansen had done the procedure, as having the advantage of the scope and surgeon’s specialties had made all of the difference in a smooth and thorough procedure.
I was very grateful all had gone well- and more than a little glad for a fine male nurse who asked me sincerely and unflinchingly if I needed anything while Drie was away, and who brought me a plate of food, the first that I had eaten since the night before. The rest of the night was spent helping Drie fully wake and come back to herself while watching a great program on PBS about the conquest of Mexico City by Cortéz.
While watching, Ryan came back from his day’s hunt with his dad and graciously called wanting to know what he could do. I wearily mumbled something about cheezebread, grape juice and my laptop. He responded by arriving in less than twenty minutes with just that, minus the juice for the hurry to get to the hospital before the nine o’clock witching hour of the end of visitor’s hours. We had customary, welcome laughs and social and environmental commentary about the hospital while we filled in the gaps in our ribs with mozzarella and bread. Man, did than bread and chatter go down well.
After Ryan went home to his family, Drie and I wound down to my rapidly declining cognitive and physical coordination. I began spilling everything and blathering incoherently, so I made my small, lumpy bed and collapsed in it for the choppy and nurse-interrupted night ahead.
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