I want to bring Boop home. I’m not good at being cooped up and dependent. They were planning to discharge us yesterday, but I was concerned about Boop’s yellow color. They said her bilirubin levels were normal, but I asked that they be rechecked. Yes, they were elevated. Breast feeding and her bruised head were driving up her levels.
 |
| Wasn't this a form of torture in a James Bond movie? |
They brought out the light box to lower her bilirubin levels, and Boop hated it. Suddenly, my lovely, delicate baby girl was a hysterical, traumatized wreck. We repositioned her. We consoled her. We did everything we could think of. My nurse brought in the charge nurse, and they talked me into a pacifier, which I wasn’t completely opposed to. I planned to introduce them later after nursing was well-established. They put a sweet solution on it to encourage her to take it. She seemed to calm. Then, a bit later, I took her out of the light box to feed her. She wouldn’t latch. Nipple confusion. Then, I was a wreck and angry. My baby would not eat! Her last meal was at 1pm, and the hours rolled by without her eating.
I shouldn’t have listened to them. So many babies aren’t able to nurse to begin with. I had a baby who had an amazing <and painful!> latch, and then I lost it. Then, there was a list of things a mile long that I needed to check with the physicians about—pre-pregnancy meds, concerns about the possibility of the baby blues, etc. I was having a meltdown of my own.
No comments:
Post a Comment