When I say that I "woke up on Christmas morning," what I really mean is that I "had to finally get out and start the Christmas morning." It had been a rough night. My husband and daughter scuffled in their sleep all night over space in the tiny Father's Bed they were sharing. That wretched alarm went off every two hours to remind me to pump. In the middle of the night, somehow, one vial of breastmilk had toppled over onto the hospital NightStandUtilityCart and 15 milliliters of liquid gold were lost. That made me cry.
I used the bed remote to raise myself up, then did the roll-over-to-the-left move that I'd mastered in the 6th month of my first pregnancy to catapult me out of bed. The tile floor was cold. The toilet seat was cold. The spigot water was cold. If it had been a fun White Christmas kind of morning, all the cold would have been exciting.
Tiptoeing around the hospital room so as not to wake my husband and daughter, I held in the sobs. I'm pretty sure my postpartum depression began on Christmas morning, at the moment I realized I didn't have anything to wear. I girded myself into the hated belly sling I'd worn for most of my pregnancy. It hurt when gravity grasped my empty gut. I wanted to wear a hospital gown and be wheeled into the Level 3 NICU so that I didn't have to think about anything. But I threw on the maternity clothes my Mom brought me, skipped the makeup my husband brought me, and bundled my feet inside two pairs of fuzzy hospital socks. I could barely walk without a percocet, but I was almost looking forward to the predawn silent and solitary creep down the hall that I'd become accustomed to.
I was assaulted when I opened the door. So many people, so much music. And much too damn much happiness. A passing nurse told me that lots of people like to have babies on Christmas Day.
bah humbug
I held onto my three vials of hard-won breastmilk, and scowled my way down the hall. A man, clearly a dewy-eyed first-time father whose baby was not in any NICU, beamed at me and sang out, "Hey! Merry Christmas!" I scooted into the refreshment room and put a cup of coffee together. I took two percocets with my coffee on Christmas morning. I knew I only needed one Extra Strength Tylenol to get me through the morning, but here's two truths about percocet: it gives you a pleasant tingling sensation when nothing else seems pleasant, and it doesn't go through the breastmilk. I snailfully advanced out of the refreshment room and on down the hall towards NICU Level 3.
When I got there, I gave my baby's name to the girl working the desk.
She replied, "And who are you?"
"I'm his mother," I said, gesturing to my wristband with the vials of breastmilk in my hand.
"Do you have your photo ID with you?" she challenged me.
"Um, no," I answered. "It's in my hospital room. My son was born a week ago; I've been coming in here, like, 9 times a day ever since with my wristband. No one ever asked me for a photo ID, and no one told me I'd need one."
"I'll take your milk, but you can't see him until I see your ID," she held her hand out for my milk. So, she'd let my baby drink liquid from someone strange, but not let someone strange see my baby? I kept my milk and turned around. I left the NICU and looked down that long hallway. I began to scuttle back from whence I came to retrieve my driver's license, and thought of all the snarky things I could bring with me to identify myself as his mother.
Only... I didn't have any snarky things.
When I got back to the NICU, the cranky Christmas morning girl was gone, and a friendly face had replaced her. After matching my wristband to my son's chart (which is the way it's supposed to be done), she let me in. It was only 7.30am, so the dawn rays had not yet begun to brighten the NICU over the rest of the hospital wings. I washed my hands and arms, up to my elbows, while softly singing "Happy Birthday" in my head three times. I waved to the day nurses I recognized who were assigned to other babies that day. When I rounded the corner to my son's area, I clapped my hands and smiled.
He was wearing clothes!!
He was wearing a Santa bib!!
He had a Santa Bear stuffed friend!!
Taped to the side of his plastic warming crib, there was a picture of Elijah, awake, cuddling with the Santa Bear. The night nurse had dressed him in the sleeper onesie that had been anonymously donated, and used some re-purposed hospital supplies to prop him up and create this photo op before she put him to sleep and had her shift change.
My day was looking brighter. I gave last night's breastmilk to the day nurse and then fed Elijah his bottle of yesterday afternoon's breastmilk. I sang him some Christmas carols while he fed. Then I rocked him to sleep and held him for a little longer as he slept. When I looked at the clock, I realized it was already nearly 9.30am and my husband and daughter might be eating Christmas breakfast without me.
I almost wish they had been and that I had skipped Christmas morning breakfast. I made my way as moderately as possible to the hospital mess hall. {I don't really mean that it's a mess hall. Shands has the best food of any hospital I've ever seen. I mean it. Who else has a sushi place and a taco stand?} The only thing open was Wendy's. I ordered a biscuit of some kind with a bit of protein of some kind on it, with coffee and hashbrowns. My husband and daughter were already seated at a table. I went to the condiment bar, didn't see what I was looking for, and asked for what I wanted at the cashier's.
The cashier said they were out.
I had asked for ketchup and coffee creamer.
I went back to the table. I looked at my naked potatoes, my wilted protein and carb breakfast sandwich, my bitter black coffee.
I thought about all my previous Christmas breakfasts that were abundant with orange-glazed cinnamon rolls and eggs scrambled with cheese and toast with apple butter and fresh coffee paled over with skimmed cream...
And I wept.
Right there at the Wendy's At Shands Hospital table.
I had had enough. I had been grateful, I had been humble, I had felt oppressed, I had felt lifted up in glory. I had skipped meals and sleep. I had held my husband's head over a toilet so he could vomit 20 minutes before I gave birth. I had entertained my family while they waited for my son's birth, I had felt guilt for spanking my daughter and for causing my niece to miss her own birthday.
But I couldn't handle soggy, naked potatoes and black coffee.
I cried and cried all over that Formica table.
"What's wrong with Mommy?" my daughter asked my husband.
"She's sad."
"Why?" that eternal, infernal toddler question!
"Because she didn't get enough bacon," he told her. "Can you share some of yours with her?"
I understood what he was doing. He was redirecting the situation to something that our 3 year old daughter could handle; at the same time, he was gently reminding me that this wasn't happening to just me. It was happening to the whole family.
My daughter handed me one half of one of her slices of bacon, and she gave me her most beautiful smile. "Can we go see my brother now?" she asked.
