The birth of Morgan

Morgan James was born in December, after a difficult pregnancy. I was 20 years old, and scared, but elated to be pregnant. I was married and working full time to support myself and my musician (now ex) husband, while attending nursing school in the evenings. The pregnancy went smoothly, though getting medical insurance was impossible. After months of jumping through hoops trying to get prenatal care covered through the state, I finally just went to the county clinic for prenatal care, where they gave me a pap smear (at 28 weeks gestation) as I hadn't had one earlier in the pregnancy/year. They treated me rudely, asked if I had ever heard of birth control, and then left the (pinching) speculum inside me while they left the room for over 10 minutes. Later that night, when I woke up to pee, I noticed something dark on the toilet seat, so I turned on the light, and there was blood...bright red blood everywhere, all over the bathroom, all over me! I woke my husband (who didn't drive due to his anxiety issues) and drove myself to the closest hospital - they were reluctant to treat me without insurance, so I was sent to LA County hospital instead...turns out the pap smear had dilated my cervix and the cause of bleeding was the placenta (a marginal previa that would have likely resolved itself if not for the the pap smear). They sent me home that night, but the next day I started bleeding again while I was at work and I was terrified, and drove myself straight to the county hospital. They admitted me to the obstetrical ICU with a diagnosis of placenta previa (after several invasive vaginal ultrasounds) and I was put on bed rest, IV drugs to stop labor, and was prodded daily by teaching staff and insensitive doctors. That was November 15th and I stayed in the hospital through Thanksgiving, until December 5th, when I was finally released on bed rest and oral meds at home. Of course the financial and emotional stress was considerable, as I could no longer work and my ex-husband still did not get a job at that point, or even help wash the dishes. On December 23rd, as I got up from my bed to go to the bathroom, I started to hemorrhage again, so I went back to the hospital where I was given an emergency c-section very late at night, all alone (my ex-husband was totally high and too busy rehearsing for a gig when I called to let him know his baby was going to be born), and I was utterly terrified. I have never felt so alone in my life, my mom had died 6 years earlier and I called to her in my mind, to protect us. Then, I was so drugged that when they announced it was a boy, I was confused, I think I said something like "oh, wow, someone had a baby?" and then I remembered and I couldn't move and just wanted to see him. I asked questions, like "how much does he weigh?" and they laughed at me because I guess I was still sort of incoherent from the meds. After the surgery, in the recovery room, I was upset, I thrashed around and cried and wanted to see my baby and hold my baby, but they just pumped me up with more drugs to calm me. Morgan was born at 35 weeks gestation, weighing 5lbs. and 13oz., in the wee hours of December 24th, 1991. My little son was whisked off to the NICU, and I stayed awake for the next 11 hours, begging to see him, asking them to bring me to him or bring him to me. I was crying, yearning, and sinking into a deep depression and sense of disconnection. I asked for a picture of him, news of his health, anything - and hey kept telling me to sleep! When I finally was allowed to get out of bed, after 11 hours of separation, I was wheeled down to the NICU and had the surreal experience of seeing my child for the first time while a brusk Dr. I had never met before quizzed me as if I were to blame for the premature birth ("what drugs did you take during your pregnancy?", "why don't you have insurance?" etc.). For a long time I believed that I was responsible. I desperatly wanted to pick my baby up and hold him next to my body, but was told I could only touch him. I just wanted a moment of peace to look at my child, but it was so noisy and bright. I yearned to put him to my breast to nurse and was told he was receiving everything he needed through his IV (well, of course he wasn't!). I wasn't allowed to stay with him very long, they constantly said I needed to get back to my bed and get some rest, and let my baby rest, they would take good care of him. They came to my room and happily reported to me that he started drinking from a bottle- "no!" I said, "I want to breastfeed" and they said I really shouldn't bother, that I would be making him work too hard to get the nutrition he needed to put on weight, and that it would be harder for me, would tie me down. I asked for a breast pump, they had a hand pump and I tried to figure out how to use it on my own in my hospital room, between well-meaning vistors, and I became discouraged - didn't know why I wasn't getting any milk out, and all the while I was continually talked down to, and treated like crap by the staff, especially the people in the NICU. They discharged me from the hospital after 2 days, and kept my son there for another 3 days. It was difficult to get back and forth from my apartment to the hospital, my incision hurt, and I had nobody for support - my husband was useless, and I had no mother, no sisters, no friends who had given birth...my milk came in at home in the middle of night when I wasn't near my baby, and I was painfully engorged, had night sweats, and missed my baby terribly...I cried all night and my husband thought I was losing my mind- when I brought my milk to the hospital in a cooler, they put it aside and didn't use it, and then when I asked about it, they said it had been sitting out too long! I finally got my baby home and finally was able to find and travel to a lactation specialist, and from that point it still took about 3 months to be able to nurse him without the SNS. I slept with him next to me (but didn't tell anyone!) and slowly, slowly, we bonded with each other, and I became a mother. The story goes on of course, through a painful divorce, poverty, my father's illness and death, and my son's anxiety disorder that has made connecting continually challenging- but the story is also one of survival together, of re-connection and healing, and overcoming challenges...anyway, I'll stop now.