A long story, or the impressions of a lazy mom (Regional Hospital, Kherson)

A long story, or the impressions of a lazy mom (Regional Hospital, Kherson)

Part one, or going to the doctors.

It all started with the fact that I, being a conscious girl, went to a gynecologist for a routine inspection. I was twenty-four, there were no medical problems either in the past or in the present, life was smiling ...
Truth be told - you will come to the doctors as a healthy person, and you will come out as a ruin. An hour later, I crawled out into the street, and even crying was not strong. A vigorous red-haired granny, to whom I, by the way, got into serious cronyism, gave me such a bunch of diagnoses that chlamydia and thrush compared to the rest of the Latin curses seemed like a children's fairy tale. The main horror was the mysterious diencephalic syndrome, which, as I was told, "prevents conception, and this is for the best, because with such violations of the hormonal status of the mother, the normal development of the child is not expected."On top of that, the mustache uzist showed me a gray, blurry something twitching on the monitor that turned out to be my own ovaries, and, poking my finger in unintelligible spots, stated “sclerocystic cytosis of both ovaries”. After listening to long maxims, the meaning of which was reduced to the fact that “one must launch oneself this way,” I received a list of medications that, according to minimal estimates (and at 2001 prices) cost about one and a half thousand hryvnias.
The ruin, which I turned into, hobbled up to work and spent the rest of the day in a stupor. All I had to do was explain the misfortune of my husband. My husband looked at my twisted face and said only "it means we will be treated." Sobbing and throwing dishes got sick.

For a couple of days, I shoveled a wild amount of medical and paramedical literature, in passing, thanks to university professors who had driven the basics of biology into my head. It turned out that the diencephalic syndrome is like a big pit, into which everything incomprehensible is thrown that can only be found in the human body. With sclerocystosis, it was heavier, but also not hopeless. The result of the experience was a visit to another gynecologist, who, after listening to my sad story, raised beautiful eyebrows to an equally beautiful head and dragged me to a second ultrasound. Fifteen minutes two uzistov and gynecologist frantically searched on the screen at least some signs of sclerocystic disease - of course, in vain. After that, looking at me with sympathy, my (since then, constant) doctor said the following:
DOCTORS NEED TO BELIEVE. BUT AND THIN YOUR HEAD THINK IS ALSO NEEDED.
Subsequently, I often recalled her words. Especially - during pregnancy.

Part Two, or Clover Leaf.

The biggest problem was fears. And the greatest fear is the fear of inevitability. Knowing my character (when I was still in school, I fervently argued to my classmates that children were disgusting; they scream and crap, and it is not clear why they are needed), I was afraid of responsibility for the child and the fact that it was forever; I managed at the same time to be afraid that I would become pregnant and that I could not; the fact that I turn into a wedge and that I cannot become a good mother. The favorite phrase of that period was “you can get a divorce with your husband, you can change the apartment, and you won't put a child back”.Then followed a long sigh and a cry of the soul: "What if I do not love him?". The sensible (as I understand it now) words “where are you going to get” are perceived by me as a mockery.
At the same time every month I looked through a strip of dough, stubbornly remaining alone. For the fourth month, I spat on calculations, plans, etc., deciding to measure the basal temperature for a couple of months (damn funny procedure, as long as my husband didn't see) and determine on which day of the cycle I ovulate, and then what will happen .
As one would expect, the thermometer twitched up the very next day. I wrote down the date and forgot about all the problems until the next month.
That same evening, having spent a very rich, romantically-family evening, I fit in with my warm, sniffing husband. And already through a dream I thought about whether I need a child, and if so, why. Mad Mother Love? And if it is not? The continuation of the kind? On the planet, and so crowded nearly six billion people. Why bother with the belly, childbirth, diapers, snot, shouting, the inability to live your life? As if someone was asking me from the inside - why do you need a child? And only having found the answer, I fell asleep in a sweet dream, feeling — again, from somewhere inside — strange agreement.

The next day, my husband and I walked through the square. Something pushed me like that - I said with a laugh that if I got a happy leaf of clover, it means that we will have a child. The four-leaf stalk was the first to fall into my hands. There was no laughter. After another couple of days, I shook my husband by the shoulder and poked a test case under his nose, decorated with two stripes. After such a wake-up (at four in the morning, on Sunday), the poor spouse realized that he was facing hard days.

Gloomy forecasts came true only partially. There were no problems with pregnancy, I did not want to create them on purpose, and walked easily. Neither toxicosis (once it was very bad when the loving future dad brought rapans on the fifth month, I ate them heartily, and then embraced the toilet with the same unrestrained sincerity) nor serious threats of breakdown. Once - on the 25th week - there was bleeding, thank God, of erosive nature. In the LCD, they took a smear from me, and the nurse girl confusedly told me “oh, and you are bleeding” after picking on me. What I experienced in those few minutes while the girl ran after the head was impossible to convey. It turned out that she had touched my long-healed cervical erosion, and she had blocked up - the blood supply was good. I crawled to the house and lay down, putting a candle with a papaverine in the ass.Three days of almost bed rest, vitamin E and suppositories — and the bleeding stopped. Then everything was in order.
There were several problems. The first of these were smells. I never thought that a trip in a minibus could be such a nightmare.
The second problem was a strange state of thought about nothing, that is, I could sit down and sit for half an hour just like that, wondering about any higher matters. At this time, for example, a bath could be filled, and it is good if I remembered it in time. Forgetfulness, which is typical, has been preserved until now, but is slowly fading away.
The third problem was my smoking, which I, alas, could not refuse either during pregnancy or during lactation. I tried more than once. I felt so sick of living that I finally decided that smoking was harmful, but the psycho mother was even more harmful, so I switched to light cigarettes and tried to smoke only when I really wanted to, and not from boredom or for company. There is nothing to be proud of, of course, but to this day, I believe that for the unborn child, mommy's smoking is not so terribly moderate as serious stress; and, in the end, not enough what a future mother can be a "mom from the cover."And, considering the amount of tar and nicotine received per day, and comparing them with the data on the amount of various chemicals in ordinary street air, he calmed down: a seven-minute walk along a busy street was equal to one cigarette. Therefore, I walked exclusively in green areas, especially since nobody canceled the work, and both offices (I worked on two jobs) were on opposite sides of the same park.
Until the third month only I, my mother and husband knew about my pregnancy. You never know ... In the 12th week, my spouse and I went to an ultrasound scan, where, among other things, we saw a pair of charming little hands, very tiny, with fingers splayed, angrily twitching in response to the movement of the sensor. The placenta was located rather low, but we were reassured by the fact that it usually grows upwards; The neck fold of the child was also normal. In short, we went for a walk on.

Part Three Not so terrible features, or features of post-Soviet medicine.

Female consultation (of a foreign area, since the LCD of our area was the one in which I was put on sclerokystosis, and I didn’t even want to go near) I remembered as a sweet doctor who missed me without waiting in the hope that the rogue mom would buy from her anythingI was particularly pleased with the lotion for stretch marks on the stomach at a cost of 80 hryvnia (approximately $ 15 at the then exchange rate), and constant messages for additional tests, from which I fought with my hands and feet. The longest I was scared of TORCH-infections, and it was necessary to pass the analysis in an infectious (!) Hospital, having driven half the city, to pay 200 hryvnia and wait. With a fright, get on the Internet, I found out wonderful details, which, naturally, no one bothered to tell me. In particular, the fact that cytomegalovirus, it is herpes, is in any normal woman, but only pregnant women are afraid of terrible consequences, “forgetting” to clarify that harm to a child can be caused only with acute form of genital herpes. But all are cut with the same comb, and all are treated intensively. Approximately the same picture was found in relation to mycoplasmas, chlamydia and other things: you can find them in 8 women out of 10 (or write about what they are - there are no symptoms, and the material interest of a private analyzing company is present), scare and without that frightened young lady terrible and inevitable consequences for the fetus ("forgetting" to report that these consequences develop in the eventwhen a woman picks up these infections in the process of pregnancy or they become aggravated at this time) is also easy, and this despite the fact that serious problems in a child develop in one case out of a thousand. Much more harm can be done by taking potent drugs, which are usually prescribed for positive test results. I had the audacity to ask my doctor about what she would treat my TORCH infections if they were all available, and I heard in response: “How what? Antibiotics and orungal! Well, there you will eat garlic, lemons, raise immunity. " Having picked up the fallen jaw, I left. And I didn’t go for any tests, having decided that I’ll raise my immunity, and I’m not going to crush a viral (!) Infection with antibacterial agents, which are all antibiotics without exception, and even mine, in all respects. Subsequently, I was convinced that I had taken the right position, because my friend, who was registered at the same time as me and did all the tests, was discharged tetracycline, generally forbidden during pregnancy, and that same orungal, and then treated for a long time for vaginal dysbiosis, still! Orungal and its analogues are suitable for those who suffer from nail or skin mycoses, that is, “mushrooms in hard-to-reach places”.And the normal vaginal microflora dies from the oringal almost immediately, which makes it possible to treat the mother again - now from dysbiosis and related problems. Business, gentlemen. To my great regret, I can not explain anything other than the blatant monetary exploitation of maternal love.

I love medicine and trust her. In the end, my parents are doctors of the most conservative type, and doctors are good. Moreover, I firmly know that the majority of practitioners are not pests in white coats, not maniacs, but normal people, no different from the rest of humanity. But now the health care system, which has a place to be, is capable of crippling even the best specialist. Doctors themselves talk about it - read at least Komarovsky. A sword of Damocles is constantly hanging above every doctor. And at any moment, having picked up any medical history, any examiner can find - and often finds - a lot of shortcomings of treatment. And the main drawback, in spite of Hippocrat’s “do no harm”, is NOT the purpose of the drugs and procedures. Any trifling deviation from the norm, which, most likely, will pass by itself, in this context turns into a guilty verdict.The doctor DOES NOT HAVE THE RIGHT TO NOT ASSIGN A medicine or procedure even when she firmly knows that the likelihood of complications is minimal (but there is), and that, most likely, “will pass by itself” (but one of the hundred will not work, she will complain about City Health Department, and he will send a commission, and 99 others, who have passed, will not be taken into account). Therefore, before, headlong, to rush to follow the doctor’s instructions, it is not bad to know what causes them to fail, and act accordingly. As for private owners, they are so different - and, alas, there is a situation when they strenuously treat a non-existent sore, so that later they happily inform the woman that "now you are all right," although everything was all right from the beginning. As for TORCH infections, they were not heard of them ten years ago, as well as about cellulite. I tend to think that this is just the fashion for the disease. As a pediatric diagnosis of dysbacteriosis, TORCH infections are given to every third woman, and they treat, heal, heal ...

On the fifth month, the child began to move - the feeling was most pleasant, and by the seventh child was already kicked off with might and main. It was especially pleasant to get both head to the bladder and feet to the liver.Julia turned around quite actively, and once - a week on the 30th - she turned across, her head under her mother's liver, her legs buried in her left side. Feelings, I must say, were unpleasant, and even in the LCD happily reported that "now we will write you a planned Caesar, rejoice." I was stunned to ask what was there to be happy about, and they answered me: "Well, of course, but don't you want a cesarean?" I said no, I do not want it, but I want natural childbirth, and I listened to a lot of "weighty" arguments in defense of Cesarean, of which I can now recall the following: "it won't be painful" - aha, and the seam will grow over in a minute, whether? "You will not stretch out there, below, you will be like a girl" - no comments, I only after birth gave all the joy of married life. “The child will not have to be pushed through” - already after the birth I read that, paradoxically, during a cesarean section, the child injury is much higher than during childbirth. In general, nature just does not do anything. Again, I am not against Cesarean - there are situations when it is for the good and for salvation, but it’s not just the same to appoint it! The tooth and it just will not pull out, but here all the same the process will be more serious. In general, I persuaded the doctor not to write anything in the exchange card until the next visit, and at home I got into a warm bath (real salvation, by the way) and began to persuade the child to turn around humanly.Nothing happened, moreover - the daughter pulled out her ass, and it even became somewhat painful, the belly of an incredible size turned out. Hearing how I groan and howl, my beloved husband came, put a hand on a child's bulging part of me and said: "The sun, turn over so that this (this is me)))) is not nervous." Then came a fragment from the film “Aliens” - the belly healed with its life and, kicking in all directions, stirred for about three minutes. At the end of the process, the child stood head down and stood like a soldier, right up to the birth.

I received the following message on cesarean from the oculist. "Well, you understand, you have myopia, maybe progress, retinal detachment." I had to stomp to an old grandfather-oculist, he looked at the fundus of the eye and wrote boldly that there were no contraindications.

By that time, the nursery was already ready, the required stroller and bed were shown to the pope (they did not buy in advance out of respect for the prejudices of the mother-in-law). That was the end of spending money on a child - children's clothes, carefully washed and ironed, waited for us at my mom.

The next ultrasound showed that the child had a slightly increased pelvis of the left kidney (as I was reassured, temporarily - the body parts grow differently, everything was already in order before the birth), and that we are expecting a girl.I was upset, I wanted a guy, but when I quietly scratched my fingers from the inside at night, it became all the same. Daughter so daughter. With the placenta, too, everything was in order, I felt fine, and continued to run to work, terrorizing my losers, even after completing the decree. Especially since being pregnant is so great! I wore a belly with pride.

The term of delivery was on March 8th by monthly, but it turned out that it would work out a little later - the term of conception was recorded, and the ultrasound showed that the child was not yet ready. I managed to finish my teeth (the dentist, having admired my stomach, asked: "When should you give birth? Today? Nothing, we have gynecologists sitting through the wall here"))).
We agreed in advance to give birth in a regional hospital, with a good specialist who, according to reviews, is calm, like a boa constrictor, does nothing and does not break prices to heaven. I was completely satisfied with this option - I didn’t want to give birth to a woman, I don’t know why, much less wanted me to have extra procedures.
The hospital sharing room was alone, but very good, and I prayed that she would not be busy. Rodilka was also personal - we insisted on joint deliveries.In general, a month before the official delivery date, I went to Kiev with my friends. I spent a week in complete joy and pleasure, despite the gloomy warnings. Once I just fell - it was very slippery - but I had such a thick coat that I didn’t get hurt myself. So I did not understand why I was discouraged from going by all existing relatives. The only thing you definitely need to take with you is a card of a pregnant woman and candles with papaverine or no-spa. But what was the most pleasant surprise in Kiev was McDonalds at every corner, and I think I went through everything - not so much for food, but for warm clean toilets. This is ridiculous, but when the stomach no longer allows you to sleep without pillows planted under it and under your back, you have to run to the toilet almost every 30 minutes, and if there is no cherished door nearby, then you will not be able to laugh. When I returned to my hometown, I smashed tangerines every day (no allergies, by the way, there was no trace) and lived to the fullest - there was a whole month of complete outposting ahead of me, so I was gaining impressions for the future. Nothing bothered, the homemade bandage regularly saved me from back pains (I am an experienced person), and life was smiling.

Part Four Tolkien maternity.

We gave birth in the maternity hospital of the regional hospital, because my mother works there, and, accordingly, the doctors are familiar in their mass and the attitude is appropriate. But even there insured blat and personal agreements. The doctor really turned out to be a very calm, sensible person; I had his mobile number from the seventh month, but by the end of February I began to actively hint at prenatal preparation. "Why do I need it?" - "Well, you understand, with us, everyone goes through it." "Is there something wrong with me?" - "Not." Well, there is no court. I referred to the fact that I was more comfortable with my husband at home, and absolutely did not want to be in the hospital at the height of the flu epidemic.
Every week I went to check the baby's heartbeat - everything was in order. I made the last ultrasound - it was found entanglement with the umbilical cord, but before the birth, Julia managed to unscrew back. Eighth of March - nothing. Same thing in a week. They began to frighten by perenashivaniem I poked the doctors with an ultrasound scan under the nose - “head size corresponds to week 39,” and I swore I swore that I remember the exact date of conception, and for her just two “extra” weeks turned out to be not even superfluous.The fact is that I have a very long cycle - 38 days, this is the physiological norm. And in response to me: "well, you understand, by existing standards you are passing over a term." I sincerely did not understand and still do not understand why all pregnant women need to be cut with the same comb to suit some standards. Anyway.

In a word, on March 20th I started having contractions. In the morning, at four o'clock. There was nothing particularly intolerable, I noticed a gap - 15 minutes, sometimes - 20, and a duration (20 seconds), and went to read the book of Olga Bryleva from my computer. The book turned out to be the most interesting, and the chapter on the fifth, I realized that there were no fights anymore. Yeah, harbingers. In the evening - again. The sensations are not particularly pleasant (as if a fist is clenched in the lower abdomen), but nothing terrible, and a warm bath with foam gave a serious relief. Yes, and my husband anesthetized the most that neither is, a pleasant method - just had to ask him to stop, waiting for the fight.
The night passed quietly, only in the morning it became sick again, you will not fall asleep. In the afternoon friends came, and again everything is in order. Towards evening, sitting with two girlfriends in the kitchen, I periodically hooked, but I didn’t want to wash the dishes for more selfish purposes))).
And on the morning of March 22, I did read Brylev — an amazing book turned out to be! It was a Saturday, and we needed a regular inspection. We went with my husband, laughed all the way, like crazy, but in the hospital laughed loudly. Even before I was examined, the head of the maternity hospital appeared and sternly stated that "on Monday you must go to bed and we will do a cesarean." I was upset to tears, but decided that the morning was wiser, until Monday there was still a day and a half, and there was nothing to be sad beforehand, especially since no one would put me on the operating table by force. Then my doctor appeared and dragged me to the chair. Inspection, by the way, was not a pleasant procedure. Stupid feeling - it hurts, but somewhere inside, and you can’t even press the aching part to make it easier. And then it turned out that the disclosure of the cervix is ​​already there, on 2 fingers. I went to my husband and said that I give birth.
The bag with the things we had assembled a long time ago, lay with mom in the apartment, so she went with her. The husband went for a fan heater - they said that it was cold in the nurse. And the paid chamber was free, thank God. While my relatives were driving, the midwife gave me such a good enema, about two liters - by God, maybe I was so lucky, but I didn’t experience any unpleasant feelings, rather, on the contrary, I was glad that I didn’t will be.And I shaved myself, at home in front of the mirror. I was forced to take off my hairpin, from my hair, I was smeared in front of the mirror so as not to frighten my husband, and then my husband and mom arrived. I grabbed them with a death grip - for some reason, it was terribly scary that they would not be allowed to go. But they let me go, although they were squinting in the elevator on the way to the maternity ward: "What are you doing, giving birth?" - "Yeah."

Here you go. Prenatal Chamber was quite a nothing, cozy and all that. I was not particularly hurt, my doctor and nurse appeared, and they went to drip medicine into my vein. Five pieces were injected - I just had time to ask my mother if everything was all right. After all, she is a doctor, she wouldn’t have given anything completely superfluous. I remembered some dirty trick, from which a nasty taste of either rubber or raw peas appeared in my mouth. Then they pierced the bubble. The water flowed - transparent, thank God - and from that moment the contractions went stronger. But also tolerable. By the way, the hook, which pierced the bubble, drove me into a state of panic - a poured torture weapon from the times of the Inquisition, and they climb into the most tender and defenseless places. Not painful, but scary!
The neck expanded a little bit slowly.My husband and I walked around the ward — it was snowing so beautiful outside the window, All Saints Day, after all, sang songs — then the nurse asked what kind of songs they were. Tolkiens - we answered honestly. Since it happened before the premiere of The Lord of the Rings, she did not understand us.
At each fight, my husband massaged my back, it became easier from this, and I tried to breathe properly and thought it was distracting. But tired, of course, great - for about three hours it all lasted. Our doctor, dissatisfied with the speed of the process, also injected oxytocin - it hurt here. Not so much to yell, but unpleasant, and most importantly - no time to rest. I just had time to be proud of my self-control (I wanted to bark at my beloved husband, who tried to comfort him that it was easy for him to say “be patient”, but it hurts me!) When I was dragged to the opening on the couch and the doctor opened his neck with his fingers. This was not just painful, but extremely painful - there is a fight, and there they are still climbing with their fingers. I yelled like an abnormal man, my husband barely kept me. But it lasted about 40 seconds in total, and now it was the most unpleasant moment of all the time of delivery.
At the end of the fight, minutes went through one and a half, if not more often, that is, I couldn’t even catch my breath between them, I just curled up on the bed and bit the bed sheet.I no longer wanted anything - neither to give birth nor a child, only that it all ended, no matter how. And not that it was unbearably painful, no, but very hard. Thanks to the midwife, who advised to get up, to hold the back of the bed with her hands and squat. Husband insured me, standing back and holding the former waist. It turned out that this is indeed much easier, in particular, because you are distracted and you can do at least something yourself, and not lie in a aching piece of meat. Later, after giving birth, I discovered that due to my zeal my skin on my hands had cracked from intensive work.

When the attempts began, the pain was gone. Totally. It was not up to her. From this moment I remember everything quite clearly, but as if through some kind of fog. The impression was such that a soccer ball climbs out of me, and all you can think about is the fact that, pardon me, as quickly as possible. I still do not understand how IT can be prodyshit and generally somehow controlled. I was pulled from the bed, I shouted that “he will fall out now, I can't!”, They barked at me - thank you very much, seriously - and dragged me to the delivery room. My husband, who looked like a cosmonaut in a white suit, stood to the left of my head, my mother — to the right, and I constantly felt that everything was in order, because I was not alone.
There was a total of four. And I thought I was weak.But then she grabbed the pens of the table, rested her legs with all her strength and snarled from the tension. I was still barked at the fact that I roared — to waste, they say, all my strength for the effort, not for the shouting — I wanted to explain that it was not shouting, but of course it pulled out of effort, but it wasn’t that. On the third attempt, they shouted to me that now the head was almost born, come on, someone snapped it with scissors, I heard an "episiotomy", but the midwife said: "she will give birth to her." What a bliss it was when Yulkin Golovenko was finally born! I felt her pull out, hot liquid rushed out — the back water — and she immediately screamed, herself. I stretched out my arms and they put it on my stomach. She was wet, slippery, hot, all dark, like a negro, with long black hair and eyelashes, with long nails, brown-eyed. I pressed her to my chest and burst into tears with happiness. She sucked, so persistently, for a long time I didn’t want to give her away, mumbled something to her about how happy and happy I was to see her, and how I congratulated her. Then they took her to wash, and a bubble with ice flopped on my stomach. I constantly looked in the direction where the child was taken - they washed it there, examined it, put 8 points on Apgar (they said that the reflexes on the legs were poorly expressed), and in the meantime I gave birth to the placenta and asked me to show it at least.Apparently, the psychoses of women in labor in the maternity hospital are treated calmly because they lifted her out of the pan and showed it to me. Hmmm, not so I imagined her. Pale thick tortilla, and such a thin umbilical cord. And then my mother leaned over and told me that the girl was given to Alyosha, and now they will inject painkillers, they will clean and sew me, because the placenta is coarse and not like me, but also the obstetrician. Injected. I saw a wonderful dream. Tolkiens will understand - I dreamed of the Halls of Mandos (reading Bryleva backfired, apparently), luminous walls, corridors, and I flew on and around, until I ran into two luminous pillars of a human face. “Elves,” I guessed, and said it out loud. Mom leaned toward me and asked a brilliant question: "What are the elves? Dark or light?" "What you need!" - I declared strongly and swam further. The reaction of the birthing brigade was extremely calm - and this did not seem to happen. Then the walls spun around, lights flashed, and a double husband appeared in front of his eyes. And the swaddled daughter already slept in the crib.

Part Five. Maternity weekdays.

We lay for five days. The chamber cost us 70 hryvnias a day — not so much — the child was always with us, I put it in my bed, and we slept together.Once, she was taken to a pediatrician for an examination, and returned, swaddled so that she could barely breathe and looked like a solid log. Horror. In general, the joint content was very enjoyable. The baby took her breast very famously (I was unbeaten during pregnancy, so the amount of colostrum was calculated not in drops, but in milliliters), after which she fell asleep. I remember how the morning after giving birth, I completely cleaned up in the shower (but, alas, there was no toilet in the ward), I swaddled the baby (I always got too loose) and began to look at it. She was dozing, hanging in my arms, and she looked like a puppy — a fat girl with Mongolian eyes — smelly, smelling like milk ... The main feeling was amazement - was it really all? Is it really a living person? Such a miracle - and suddenly mine, it is not clear for what was sent.

Congratulatory calls began the same morning. I especially remember well a very drunk chef who told me that “everyone drinks to your health in the morning,” and a family friend who managed to send SMS to the minute a minute with how my daughter received meconium. By the way, what's interesting is that I was afraid that baby diapers would stink (well, I am squeamish,what to do) - nothing like that!
From the very morning our dad ran away to finish everything that was left unfinished in the house, and returned in the evening. I was so glad to see him, although I wanted to kill all the other visitors on the spot.
The nurse, the washed floor, still wherever it went — she did everything quickly, silently and did not give any advice. Nurses came across different, but for the most part also normal. That is, they brought diapers and left. But I wanted to be alone with my daughter, and no one else. And the door to the ward did not close, and advisers occasionally appeared - “you do not hold her so much”, “and you don’t put her in your bed, she will get used, you will not wean”, “that you swaddle her so freely?” and so on. I remember that I wanted to ponder with happiness, tears themselves rolled up, well, just a stream - maybe because of hormonal changes, and, in my opinion, from everything at once. I sit and roar from happiness and emotion, my daughter sniffs near. A nurse peeks in. Runs away. Comes the second: "What are you roars?" Honestly answer. Leaves. Is with the doctor. The scene repeats. Do not give a shout, in short.

In the evening, came with a round head. maternity hospital (the one that freaked me out by caesarean). And it began.
"Why are you standing? (And I swaddled my daughter) We must lie down!"
Laid down
"Why in your dressing gown? It should be in the hospital!"

Who was in the hospital remembers these "bathrobes". Cut to the top of the navel (well, feed) and a hole from the bottom to the navel (and this is why?!). Sterile, but gray. With stamps. Raise your hand - the chest falls out. Lean down - from disrepair disperses on his back.
"Why in panties ?! Why with a gasket? !!!"
I'm dumbing. And with what else? With this horror, called bedding? How to keep it?
The nurse tells - to pinch her legs. I then tried it for fun. You can only walk in goose. Everything flows. Rag falls. Maybe it is convenient for someone to lie with him, but I ran around the room like a meteor! Later I found out that the manager has a point about cowards. He sincerely believes that IF A WOMAN IS IN PANTS, THEN THE BLOOD IS DETAINED IN THE MATT. It's like "if a bucket is put under the tap, not a canister, then the water will not flow." Rave.
He cursed me and left. Well, I think we'll meet tomorrow morning - I'll do everything right. Then my husband came, we chatted with him, Julia sleeps - beauty. Fell asleep.

In the morning wake - bypass. Come. AND...
(Looking around: the woman in labor lies quietly, everything is as it should be.)
"Why is the husband sitting on your bed ?! You can't!"?
"Why do you not have rubber slippers, but plastic? How will you wash them?" (here I decided that one of the two of us has a roof)
And finally: "Why do you have a mobile on the bedside table? It is harmful!"

They prescribed antibiotics to me (they were afraid after the curettage of the infection) - my mother ran, bought those that did not affect lactation and were not transmitted with milk. And the same night, Julia arranged a scandal with my husband. While at the breast - silent, sniffs. Let go - and yell. What? And wore, and watered - well, yelling and all. It's already one in the morning.
I crawl out into the corridor - the post is empty, dark, where everything - the devil knows them. She shoved in a couple of chambers - no one. In general, I went, I called the elevator (no joke, there is a call button), and a sleepy woman in a dressing gown woke me to a nurse and pediatrician.
The nurse was the most sane of all of us. Sleep well, I guess. While the pediatrician was getting up, she managed to ask me if the milk had come? Not. “She’s hungry, she’s screaming. I’m scouting the mixture now.” And ran away.
Meanwhile, a pediatrician appeared. With the "diagnosis" agreed. But it was forbidden to give the mixture. To my question - and what to do - literally answered the following: "Nothing, milk will appear by morning, then feed, and now give the breast, but rightly." And she began to teach me how to give a breast.Until that moment, I thought that it was right when it was convenient and not painful for the child and mother, I mean, the child holds not only the nipple in the mouth, but also the areola, and the child doesn’t hold the nose, and the mother’s arms and legs -back. For me, this position turned out to be lying on its side, but when trying to lie down, the doctor categorically stated that "lying down in no case should be fed - the milk will flow through the back of the throat into the Eustachian tube, and your child will have otitis." Looking ahead, I want to say that until now (a year and a half) I feed mostly lying down, and there were no otites.
Forty minutes taught me. Honestly, I still can not understand what they wanted from me. In the end, I was ready to kill the pediatrician on the spot. "Let's chest so-and-so." I give. "Wrong! Give so that the areola was all in the child's mouth!" Is she in her mouth all the way? To me, should I put my whole chest in there? "You hold the wrong hand" And how to? "That's it" - and moves it a millimeter. All this time, the child is ruffling, dad is not sleeping, the nightmare is full. Finally, I asked what would happen if I could give the mixture now and get everyone to sleep — there will be milk in the morning, you can not be especially afraid of dysbacteriosis, the child received colostrum.They looked at me as if I offered to give my daughter poison, and in the mentor tone (well, who, who educates our doctors in such a wild way? I am their client, not educated!) Said: “Well, you are parents, you must endure, give up a lot. " All this with the easily readable overtones that, they say, you have irresponsibly brought the child, and now you are outraged from the perspective of spending the whole night on your feet. What the child is like, let alone milk, which after such a night might not appear, the lady apparently did not think. In general, we spent it and gave the mixture. Peace and quiet. Everyone slept well.
In the morning, instead of the chest, there were two milk-flowing cobblestones, the entire shirt was wet over the ears. The only thing the mixture came back to her daughter was an atypical chair. After the transition to breast milk, everything went away. And the remaining days were a full resort - I slept for 12 hours, I read, I even got bored a little. My husband rushed sausage between the house and the hospital, and I was quietly surprised at the immensity of feelings surging on me. It felt as if no one was better and more beloved than these two, I do not have, and never did. This, as I understand it, was the first burst of maternal feelings.

On the last day, they drove me to fluorography (there were still girls wondering - they say, from the maternity hospital, and the eyes are not red and smiling) and laughed around. The fact is that on the eve of the head of the house I read a lecture to me that the chamber of joint content does not imply a violent sex life. This is after he caught up with my husband for a gentle kiss. I only have one thing interesting, well, was there really at least one woman in labor who had the stupidity / heroism / sexuality to make love three days after giving birth, when the seams still hurt, you can only urinate in the shower (otherwise urine burns scars) is the persistent feeling that between the legs there is a hole into which you can easily shove a soccer ball? Or kissing with her husband according to hospital standards - a crime equivalent to an orgy?

Well, the last round was just a song. Ten minutes, a respected nagger snooping around the ward, did not know what to complain about, and literally darkened before our eyes.

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  • A long story, or the impressions of a lazy mom (Regional Hospital, Kherson)

    A long story, or the impressions of a lazy mom (Regional Hospital, Kherson)

    A long story, or the impressions of a lazy mom (Regional Hospital, Kherson)

    A long story, or the impressions of a lazy mom (Regional Hospital, Kherson)

    A long story, or the impressions of a lazy mom (Regional Hospital, Kherson)

    A long story, or the impressions of a lazy mom (Regional Hospital, Kherson)

    A long story, or the impressions of a lazy mom (Regional Hospital, Kherson)

    A long story, or the impressions of a lazy mom (Regional Hospital, Kherson)

    A long story, or the impressions of a lazy mom (Regional Hospital, Kherson)

    A long story, or the impressions of a lazy mom (Regional Hospital, Kherson)

    A long story, or the impressions of a lazy mom (Regional Hospital, Kherson)

    A long story, or the impressions of a lazy mom (Regional Hospital, Kherson)

    A long story, or the impressions of a lazy mom (Regional Hospital, Kherson)

    A long story, or the impressions of a lazy mom (Regional Hospital, Kherson)

    A long story, or the impressions of a lazy mom (Regional Hospital, Kherson)

    A long story, or the impressions of a lazy mom (Regional Hospital, Kherson)

    A long story, or the impressions of a lazy mom (Regional Hospital, Kherson)

    A long story, or the impressions of a lazy mom (Regional Hospital, Kherson)

    A long story, or the impressions of a lazy mom (Regional Hospital, Kherson)

    A long story, or the impressions of a lazy mom (Regional Hospital, Kherson)

    A long story, or the impressions of a lazy mom (Regional Hospital, Kherson)

    A long story, or the impressions of a lazy mom (Regional Hospital, Kherson)

    A long story, or the impressions of a lazy mom (Regional Hospital, Kherson)

    A long story, or the impressions of a lazy mom (Regional Hospital, Kherson)

    A long story, or the impressions of a lazy mom (Regional Hospital, Kherson)

    A long story, or the impressions of a lazy mom (Regional Hospital, Kherson)

    A long story, or the impressions of a lazy mom (Regional Hospital, Kherson)

    A long story, or the impressions of a lazy mom (Regional Hospital, Kherson)

    A long story, or the impressions of a lazy mom (Regional Hospital, Kherson)

    A long story, or the impressions of a lazy mom (Regional Hospital, Kherson)

    A long story, or the impressions of a lazy mom (Regional Hospital, Kherson)

    A long story, or the impressions of a lazy mom (Regional Hospital, Kherson)

    A long story, or the impressions of a lazy mom (Regional Hospital, Kherson)

    A long story, or the impressions of a lazy mom (Regional Hospital, Kherson)

    A long story, or the impressions of a lazy mom (Regional Hospital, Kherson)

    A long story, or the impressions of a lazy mom (Regional Hospital, Kherson)

    A long story, or the impressions of a lazy mom (Regional Hospital, Kherson)

    A long story, or the impressions of a lazy mom (Regional Hospital, Kherson)

    A long story, or the impressions of a lazy mom (Regional Hospital, Kherson)

    A long story, or the impressions of a lazy mom (Regional Hospital, Kherson)

    A long story, or the impressions of a lazy mom (Regional Hospital, Kherson)

    A long story, or the impressions of a lazy mom (Regional Hospital, Kherson)

    A long story, or the impressions of a lazy mom (Regional Hospital, Kherson)

    A long story, or the impressions of a lazy mom (Regional Hospital, Kherson)

    A long story, or the impressions of a lazy mom (Regional Hospital, Kherson)

    A long story, or the impressions of a lazy mom (Regional Hospital, Kherson)