Worrying about a child

Well, I did a Grandaddy Brady. And what does this mean you might ask? Let me explain. We've a thing in my family about worrying and testing for appendicitis. My mother's appendix exploded and she contracted peritonitis and was hospitalized for three weeks. Everafter my grandfather (a doctor himself) carried the torch of checking for sore stomachs, poking that right hand side below the belly button, and hurrying us to the hospital should the symptoms be indicative.

In fact I did have my appendix out when I was fourteen. I'm thus the only one of my siblings to have actually experienced the pains, the vomitting, the craziness and the urgency of it all.

And so, I must admit to being rather pre-disposed to consider this an option when my little one just doesn't seem to get better from his gastro, when he's just continuing to be wracked by dry heaves, deeply in pain, unable to fall back into a restorative sleep, crying out at the sharpness of the stabs in his abdomen. He wasn't even willing to get into a warm bath! (Unheard of in my family).

It was while I tried to take advantage of that bath (mustn't let hot water go to waste!) that it dawned on me that Jonas might be really sick. That I had no more than 5 minutes in the water before he called for me was also a sign. So I got moving.

At which point my support network totally failed me. I called seven different parents who drive -- if not the exact route I do -- extremely close to my house. And not a one answered his/her cell phone. I didn't want to leave my little boy alone in the house while I went to get the others. He just was so miserable, and I was really beginning to worry. But, pas de chance, off I had to go to get the others, leaving Jojo alone.

That extra time decided it. As quickly as I was able to drop off the older boys, I grabbed Jojo, his slippers, coat and a blanket, and piled him into the car and off to the hospital.

As we waited and waited and waited (two hours in the waiting room can seem very long when you've a very sad child tensing, moaning, crying with you) I felt as helpless as a flea. You want to be taken seriously -- I don't think I over react when it comes to my kids, probably I under react, if anything. But you see the nurses sending in the girl with the sore shoulder before you. Of course, all babies get priority treatment, which is as it should be. But isn't a possible appendicitis important? Are they thinking this is just a simple gastro and thus are letting us wait it out. Perhaps they're waiting for Jojo to fall asleep and thus show that he isn't truly that sick. Or?

At long last we did get taken to the doctor, and Jonas finally felt better. I watched how she tested to see if he truly had an appendicitis or not. I absorbed the lesson, felt hugely relieved, but also weary from all the tension of the day. And then, losing my way once, then at last finding it, carried my little boy back out to the car and home to bed.

And now, to sleep. I don't know if I'm humbled, or just weary. I'm sad to carry this burden alone. I suppose I could wonder why today of all days was one where the universe decided I needed to carry it all alone. I felt so completely demoralized when I couldn't reach anyone to help me get the boys back from school. Total system breakdown. But then, I coped, as I had to, and the day is over, as I suppose it was meant to be.

And now yes, to sleep.

If you're in need of a hospital in Avignon...

Well, I'm home and my minimal intervention (a conisation of the cervix) is done and over. Time now to teste what they removed, and simply keep an eye on things to see whether more abnormal cells appear or not. Patience... Perhaps also a time to visit my friend the healer and seer. A truly amazing woman. She is perhaps one of the major reasons Jonas has no scars from a vicious burn he received when he was about five.

However, I wanted to praise the Clinique Urbain V in Avignon, the private hospital in Avignon. All paper work went smoothly.Signing in and getting a room was easy, the nurses were attentive, good-humored, at times downright funny (telling jokes as they wheel you to the bloque). The meal after the surgery was a bit spartan (a slice of ham, a pat of butter, a small chunk of baguettish bread, some camembert, peach purée/compôte and a super sweet hot chocolate with milk.

As in all good hospitals I assume, one is constantly asked one's name, why you're there and who your doctor is -- safety measures that are quite appreciated, or perhaps simply sanity tests? And, just before the anaesthesiste comes to knock you out, there's my doctor with her smiling face, reassuring me that she is present and she'll be handling my procedure. It's a small thing, but it is nice to be conscious all the way to the operating room, to be greeted personally by your doctor and thus be reassured that all is well and as it should be.

I woke up just thirty minutes after I went under (those large clocks on the wall are easy to read even for a blindman like myself!) in the salle de réanimation. A couple nurses were calmly going about their business and quickly noted my open eyes and came to check with me, how I felt, whether I had any pain, etc.,

Within twenty minutes of my emerging from complete grogginess my doctor was there to reassure me that all had gone well, and she'd removed the offensive lesion of cells.

Then, back to my own room which I shared with a very pleasant woman operated on by my same doctor. We lay there, a bit out of it, and slowly returned to this universe.

The above-mentioned snack, a quick peepee, and a bit more patience (four hours from wake up to departure from the hospital minimum). And then, JP there to carry my things and steady me, off into the night I went.

So, be reassured as to the pleasantness, the efficiency, the quality of care, and the attentiveness possible and present in French hospitals. Perhaps we're particularly lucky in Avignon. Perhaps the team of nurses and doctors are particularly tight-knit, content with their jobs and competent, but, I think you'll find people like this elsewhere too.

My first baby in Provence (a while back now)

Unless otherwise noted, all materials on this blog are (c) 2009 by Madeleine Vedel

I became pregnant with Leo almost immediately after our August wedding. I stopped taking the pill and poof, within the week my body was changing. Mom’s discussion about the birds and bees, and the ease of getting pregnant in the family had held true. To confirm the pregnancy, and begin my official doctors’ visits I went to Erick’s doctor, the one I’d mistakenly tutoyed the year before, and with whom I’d never really felt at ease. But, when you’re new in town, who else do you go to? He had a very patronizing air, and when I said I’d come to get a pregnancy confirmation, he’d hurumphingly corrected me and stated he would test to see if I was pregnant. Bubbly and enthusiastic as ever, I declaimed that with my bigger and ever more sensitive breasts and my appetite going through the roof, I just knew I was pregnant. He simply looked at me condescendingly and went about his business, directing me to the examining table, and checking my uterus. And yes of course, I was pregnant.

I was still working in Paris at this time, but was in Arles regularly on the weekends. So I scheduled all my appointments with the hospital ob-gyn (all paid for by the French State) as well as the three sonograms on Saturdays. In the meantime, I stocked up on pregnancy books written for English and American audiences, and one in French to cover the bases. I took videos out of the local library on giving birth, birthing rooms, various options, new-born tests, etc., I dreamed of changing my profession to that of a mid-wife. I lived my pregnancy intensely, lovingly rubbing cream on my expanding stomach and breasts to limit the stretch marks, eating as healthfully as possible, walking, biking and doing expecting mothers’ yoga.

The scheduled visits at the hospital were frustrating. The doctor was monosyllabic, and not very informative. At the first scheduled sonogram I wanted to know everything, and couldn’t resist asking questions, pointing, interrogating… He maintained his reserved demeanor and answered sparingly – driving me completely crazy. Quickly, I realized I wouldn’t be putting together a list of ideal conditions for a personal birthing experience with this doctor. But, there was no alternative, and so gradually I came to terms with the fact that a hot tub/water birth wasn't going to happen. Nor would the option of a mid-wife at the house be possible either. I knew none, and it was clearly frowned upon in the milieu I'd so recently integrated.

At work, my co-workers smoked like chimneys. This had bothered me before, but hadn’t sent me fleeing. But now, I was so sensitive to the fumes, I began to hassle them and tease them, anything to limit the quantity of cigarettes being lit up around me. And my appetite! If lunch were late, I simply fainted. It was rather scary. A simple meal of salads and a sandwich was no longer enough. I needed a full bowl of soup with noodles alongside to fill my ravenous insides.

But there was no weepiness, no morning sickness, and my energy level was up. Beyond larger breasts, I wasn’t showing particularly, and was able to go about things in a relatively normal fashion.

When I hit my seventh month, I quit my job in Paris and moved full time to the South to be with Erick. Up to that time I’d maintained the weekly commute. Walking all over Paris had been great, but working alongside three non-stop smokers had been more than a little difficult. Finally, I settled in to live full time in Arles.

Shortly after Easter arrived, and with it a visit to Erick's family. Noisy and opinionated all, excepting his father, Pappie, who sat discreetly in a corner with his book. Rather out of my depth in this small over-furnished house filled by yelling Mediterranean folk, I sought refuge in the gentle presence of my father in law, and spent most of the day with him.

The next week, Pappie called and asked Erick to come and get him. I’d like to come live with you for a time if I may, he said. I willingly agreed. I’d had a very close relationship to my own grandfather, and found Pappie so dear, that I was more than willing to have him under our roof.

From that point on Pappie and I were often together as I nested to the utmost. I refinished furniture--having always loved working with wood--and there were a couple of pieces in Erick’s kitchen that could use a bit of brightening. So Pappie and I brought the table outside, sanded off the white paint and painted multiple layers of varnish to make it indestructible in its role as the kitchen/everything table. Then we began on the bottom of the hutch, and then on another hutch brought over by a friend.

Many a day I was out in the small street, sanding away with the hand-held power sander, in large men’s shorts over my huge belly, my hair in a pony tail, a dust mask over my nose and mouth. The neighbors, who’d barely ever seen me before, didn’t quite know what to make of me. The street was tiny, narrow, and the buzzing of the sander reverberated strongly. Truly we all lived on top of each other. I’d quickly realized that early in my first month with Erick; when romping in bed, no crying out, particularly if you have the windows open for a fresh night breeze. Later on I learned about the various whispers they’d exchanged about me. Was I German, Dutch, English? I am tall, fair-haired, huge in my pregnancy, anything but elegant, and sanding furniture noisily (though being careful of nap and meal times!).

Having grown up in a large suburb of New York City, I had a rather care-free attitude about what other people thought of me. I did my thing, stayed positive, said hello to passers-by. There I was, as foreign as could be, plopped into a Southern French city. Later I would come to know the twists and turns of the neighborhood cabals and grow more sensitive to them, but at this moment, I was living for my baby, my home, my family, happy in my new Provençal life.

At last one neighbor came up to me, a gift for my baby in her hands. It was Marie, who ran the Laundromat across the street. She hesitatingly offered her hand-made sweater and booties to me. My first baby-gift. I was truly touched. A first gesture towards me in my new life. Up to this point, I’d only met Erick's friends. No one had yet approached me for myself.

Leo was born early summer. I'd been able to go swimming pregnant and topless once before the birth (late May had been particularly mild that year). There was an hilarious moment of wishing to lie tummy down in the sand, and I'd needed to punch two large holes for my breasts, and dig out a ditch for my belly. And then the day arrived when the contractions began, growing stronger and stronger. Off to the hospital we went, where, for once, I was told that I wasn’t fat enough (being a large girl with strong thighs, I’d always felt large in this world of tiny Mediterranean women). Was I flattered? “Vous n’etes pas grosse” all seven syllables in the local accent – they pronounce the ‘e’s here. The nurse who received me gave me a suppository, a remarkably popular way of packaging medicines in France, and sent me home. I was back by evening and a couple of hours later, Leo arrived.

The birth went smoothly. Though not in a magical way. It had been medicalized down to the tiniest detail; monitors on my arm, my tummy, an IV in my wrist, flat on my back, legs in stirrups, with not particularly friendly people in white bustling about and measuring me, poking me, telling me not to be so loud. (Hey, isn't this the one time you're allowed to be loud as a woman? if not when giving birth, then when?!) But then Leo was there, placed on my breast, a nurse helping him grasp my nipple in his mouth for the very first time. Shortly after, I was wheeled to my own room, and left alone with my baby. Hard to believe they’d leave me alone with him like that… I’d rarely ever baby-sat newborns. Were they sure I knew what to do with this new little bundle?

As the week went by (yes, in France you still have a week in the maternity ward after giving birth) the rare nurse stopped by. The first two mornings brought the nurse who handled the baby’s first bath, and showed me how to then do so myself. When I dared take a shower (and leave Leo alone for 5 minutes, whereby he proceeded to cry), a nurse came running to see what was up. There were of course the conflicting recommendations of nursing on demand, or insisting on three-hour spans between feedings. But in general, I had the sense that my foreignness kept the nurses at bay. I spent the week peacefully, Leo on my chest, right by my heart at most times, reveling in my first born.

Pappie was in the hospital too. He’d been in for yearly exams for his diabetes, and came down to my room to hold his new grandson on his first day on this earth. My mother arrived shortly after. Friends came by to ogle and praise. I lived it all in a happy blur.

Once home, I lay upon my new mattress, the old foam mattress I’d shared with Erick till that point (which apparently had come from a back room at the photo festival offices) in the dustbin. I slept when Leo slept, nursed lying down as often as not. The heat outdoors was heavy and sleep-inducing. I let myself fall into the rhythms of my baby. For the moment, earning a living, jobs, etc., were the last things on my mind. I simply was, and this little baby was the center of my universe, precious, fragile, and completely dependent on me. Thank goodness I had a husband who could cook.