Our Story: The C-Section Recovery Room

I was finally just one person again and was wheeled into a small recovery room and monitored for approximately one hour. Blood pressure, pulse rate, comfort level on the 1-10 pain scale, were all documented every few minutes. I asked for ice chips or water. I asked for saltine crackers. I asked for pain meds. I was also was feeling nauseated. Whatever the anesthesiologist gave me was wearing of quite quickly and I was getting very uncomfortable. The nurses said they wanted me to tell them any symptoms I was experiencing. Well, I hurt pretty bad. No sense in letting pain get out of control. As I ate my gourmet meal of crushed ice and saltines, I hoped my pain meds were coming quickly. The nurse and her trainee were chatting about this and that. I mentioned that I was out of ice and my pain was still a 7 or 8. They would document it but never mentioned anything about giving me meds. I started to get frustrated. I was really hurting. I had tried to be verbal about this. I figured if I said I was hurting, they would bring me something. After all, I had just had my guts and womanly parts outside of my abdomen. Certainly, I was entitled to some form of pain control for that.

I was done being patient with them. I was getting frustrated, and in my hormonal state, tears were not far away. I finally said, “I need some pain meds right now.” Oh, okay. We’ll get you some. I was finally given a shot of something in my IV. A few minutes later, it still wasn’t helping. I told them that I’d like to try something else for pain because what they gave me wasn’t working. The doctor would have to order it. They offered me an oral pain pill. I’ll take it! Anything!

Just as I was at my wit’s end with pain and was swallowing the pain pill down, in comes Ryan pushing the bassinet with my two precious babies. My mom followed. I held both of my babies and for the first time. Mom asked if I wanted to try breastfeeding. Sure.

Now, I’ve been a very modest and private person my whole life: partly due to being chubby, and partly due to religious beliefs. (Quick side note on modesty: Ryan and I had a hard time deciding on our girls’ swimwear: he wanted bikinis, and I was adamant that they have one-piece.) So, I never really liked getting pelvic exams, getting ‘checked’ by the doctor to see how dilated I was, etc.

But there in the c-section recovery room, I bore my boobies to the world (the two nurses, my mom and my husband felt like the world) and attempted breastfeeding my girls for the first time. It was strange and comforting to have my mom guide me in how to hold the girls, and how to bring them to the breast.

They latched on well right away. Breastfeeding was going to be easy if this is all it was. They sucked and sucked. I was in heaven except for the pain of the c-section. It was a nice moment.

I was updated on the goings on while my girls were in the nursery. Baby weights were “A” 5 pounds 9 ounces and “B” 5 pounds 7 ounces. Both 18 inches. Baths and foot prints and antibiotic eye goop and the like.

My goal was 6 lbs each. I was a little disappointed. As far as birth weights, anything lower than 5 pounds 8 ounces is considered a ‘low birth weight baby’. So by a single ounce, our little “B” was at risk for diseases and conditions and health problems that “A” wasn’t. Oh, whatever. Did I make the right decision by deciding to do the c-section so soon? I still question it to this day. But then I remember that my girls had no NICU time and no health problems. I was happier to be not pregnant anymore. Everyone was healthy and happy. And you can’t complain about that.

I was almost done with my ‘one hour stay.’ The girls were still latched on and sucking away. My mom asked if I’d like her to call my dad and let him know he was officially a Grandpa. Sure. She stepped just outside the room and called him.

They had been divorced for 15 years and barely spoke. They lived two states away from each other and that was just fine. He came to visit us but wasn’t usually welcome at her house, but could come in for special occasions. Even during family emergencies when Dad needed to be aware of the situation, it fell to one of the kids to call him. Ryan never understood this relationship. I had lived with it for years and knew it wasn’t ideal. It wasn't until Ryan and I got married that I realized how silly all this actually was.

But, there she was, in the hallway of the recovery area, dialing up her ex-husband to spread the happy news. I don’t remember much of what she said, but I do remember this: “The girls are beautiful. They don’t look like your side at all.” It wasn’t a malicious statement, but she was proud to report this. The words she used would be repeated by my father to all who knew their post-marital ‘situation.’ At least Dad found it funny.

I was finally ready to be released from the recovery room and wheeled to my post partum room where more family was waiting. I was happy to be leaving the ‘care’ of the quiet nurse and her diabolical assistant. Hopefully the nurses on the post partum floor would be more caring. We tried to extract the girls off of my boobs for the journey upstairs, but they wouldn’t have it. So, we just covered me up and I was wheeled to my room with them still sucking away.

I was a mommy. Ryan was a daddy. We were a family of four. Nothing could stop us now, except maybe a poopy diaper.