Breanna Wakar (UIC I-Promote-IL maternal health) скачать в хорошем качестве

Breanna Wakar (UIC I-Promote-IL maternal health)

TRANSCRIPT: I’m nervous about the unknown. So I plan. I keep a notebook, jot down questions, and ask them rapid-fire at each appointment. I work with my doctor to choose an induction date that balances going into spontaneous labor with not waiting too long. When the doctor and nurse start chatting about whether pitocin or misoprostol would be more appropriate to start contractions, I jump in. I say I’m nervous about misoprostol because of what I’ve learned about possible side effects. Can we try pitocin? "Sure, she says, it’s a good choice." Half a day later, she has more to say. My dilation hasn’t budged from 5 centimeters in hours. Because of a brief, high fever, she’s concerned about infection. And…the monitor shows signs of fetal distress. My doctor recommends a C-section and asks what my husband and I think. We agree. I’d hoped to avoid surgery, but I’m an active part of choosing my care. The doctors treat me with dignity and respect. Two weeks later, I wake in a room, not remembering how I got there. I’m wearing a hospital bracelet with the name of a doctor I don’t know and a date that doesn’t make sense. My daughter was born on the 12th, but the bracelet says I was admitted on the 26th. I walk into the hallway- tile floors, doors lining one side, dim safety lighting. It looks… like a psych ward. I’m told to go back to my room.. that I can come out at 6AM. But there are no clocks. I’m alone and scared. The bathroom has a pull cord. Nursing staff appear, asking what I need. I can’t find the words, so they leave. Alone again, I pull the cord. They come, but leave when there’s no emergency. The third time, they tell me I need to stop. But what I need… is for someone to tell me what’s happening…why I’m here. I need to know I’m going to be ok. Eventually, I shuffle up and down the hallway, unsure what else to do. Memories start coming … …my nonstop talking, alert after sleeping 90 minutes in 24 hours. …my Tasmanian Devil whirlwind of energy, starting five tasks without finishing any. …My doctor saying “postpartum mania.” …the trip to the emergency room. This place looks like a psych ward… because it is. My care team’s led by a matter-of-fact blond psychiatrist. I make a joke and she doesn’t smile. She talks to me like she doesn’t think I understand. Nurses keep asking if I need to pump. How the fuck would I know? I’ve been lactating for two weeks, and I’ve been sedated for over a day as part of the intake process. Oh, oh- my breasts are leaking. “Go to your room,” the nurse says. She stays in my room while I pump, then freezes my milk. But I’m taking lithium…which is potentially dangerous for my baby. The blond doctor didn’t consider this. Or didn’t care. She certainly never asked me. In the outpatient program, I meet with a psychiatrist who tells me what to do… I don’t get to ask questions. When I ask.. …what medications will we use? … Are they compatible with breastfeeding? she adds anxiety to my list of diagnoses. She doesn’t consider that my baseline is valuing being informed about my care. I find a community psychiatrist who’s willing to listen. She asks about my priorities. When I say I’m interested in switching meds so I can breastfeed, she says, it's my body, and those decisions are ultimately up to me. Someone is listening to me again… … and that’s all I wanted.