I’ve been absent lately. My baby (4 months old, 2 months adjusted age) had surgery last week to repair an inguinal hernia. Since he was a premature baby, they wanted to keep him overnight in the hospital for observation to monitor any potential apnea epsidoes that is more of a risk for a baby under 60 weeks.
An inguinal hernia is common in premature babies, particularly boys (but is also not uncommon in full-term babies). In the womb, the baby’s testicles develop in the abdomen. As the baby grows, the testicles travel down a tunnel into the scrotum. This tunnel is supposed to fuse shut, but sometimes it doesn’t, often as a result of prematurity. As a result, the opening from the abdomen into the inguinal canal allows pieces of bowel to get trapped. It is more common in boys, although it can happen in girls too. It’s usually an outpatient procedure, but my butterball had to stay overnight due to his prematurity. They were concerned with apnea.
We were scheduled to arrive at the hospital at 6AM, which meant I could only nurse him until 2AM. I fretted about this one, since my little butterball usually eats with a voracious appetite. He seemed to do well, even when they postponed the actually surgery time by two hours. I cradled him in my arms from the moment we arrived to the hospital, hoping he would know how much I love him and wanted to protect him forever. He was content and sleepy.
I, on the other hand, did not do so well. My breasts were hard as rocks and I had NEVER been so engorged. Ever. The hospital seemed pretty clueless about a breastfeeding mother. They were completely clueless as to what messing up a schedule would do to my full breasts, and they must have asked a dozen times what kind of formula he takes. Um, NO FORMULA!!!
I brought my pump, hoping I wouldn’t have to use it, but as soon as my precious boy was taken back to surgery I made a mad dash to the parking lot, hunched over like somebody with boulders in their bra. My husband miraculously arrived just as I was going through the parking lot like an engorged hunchback. He helped me set-up in a private room the nurses arranged for me…only to discover that I left a necessary part at home. Shoot!!! He ran to the breastfeeding store to purchase the parts while I tried to unsuccessfully figure out manual expression. But once he came with the right parts, and after a few minutes of pumping, all was well with the world again.
We waited anxiously for news about our boy. After 53 days in the NICU, we were seasoned pros at the hospital waiting game, but this time around we had bonded with our butterball so much more than the wrinkly little dude we met in the hospital for the first time. My husband even confessed that he loved our butterball so much he was “scared.” Scared of anything that would happen to him; scared of him feeling pain, sadness, or anything else that would hurt his sweet little body or mind.
When they called our number, I jumped up to go see my baby. Only one parent could go to recovery, and since I had the milk, I was the logical choice. I left my nervous husband behind.
Despite the nervous whirl of emotions I felt having to see my precious butterball go through this experience, I couldn’t help but feel strange about being a mother taking care of a baby. My baby. A real baby, not the dolls I used to pretend were real when I was a kid. I felt like a little kid dressed up in my mother’s clothes. I felt grown up, more grown up than I felt when I exchanged marriage vows or signed my first escrow papers. This was it. This was adulthood! I was in charge of a little life, and that kind of responsibility is immense.
I spotted my baby right away, in the distant corner of the large recovery room, surrounded by doctors and nurses and moaning in pain. That sound—my baby wailing in pain—felt like a punch in the gut, only the pain didn’t dissipate, but instead grew into a knot that settled itself right in my throat. My heart lept out of my body as I saw his puffy body dressed in an oversized hospital gown, his little head limp against the bed.
I was the only one he wanted. I swooped him into my arms and cuddled him close, whispering to him and kissing his hurt away. I offered to nurse him, which he rejected for a while, but when he was ready he nuzzled close to me and filled his belly for the first time in hours. His eyes flickered open and closed, sometimes pausing with one eye open, as if to verify that I was really there.
We were taken to a room on a different floor, where he would stay overnight for monitoring. We had a sleepless night together, with leads that were reminiscent of our NICU days sliding off and setting the alarms off every time he or I moved. But we spent the night together, him asleep on my chest as I sat half-reclined in one of those uncomfortable hospital chairs, kissing away his hurt. I remember he woke up in the middle of the night while the nurse did her rounds, full of smiles. My butterball never ceases to amaze me with his strength and disposition.
We came home bright and early the next day, and everything appears to be healing perfectly. I’m so glad that’s out of the way!
Crossing my fingers for no more hospital experiences!!! Oh yeah, and if there are any more stays…mommy needs to remember to pack socks for the baby! The standard hospital ones were way too big.
Inguinal Hernia Resources:
http://www.mayoclinic.com/health/inguinal-hernia/ds00364
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Inguinal_hernia
http://www.webmd.com/digestive-disorders/tc/inguinal-hernia-topic-overview
http://digestive.niddk.nih.gov/ddiseases/pubs/inguinalhernia/
https://health.google.com/health/ref/Hernia
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