PART II- La Gaaz and
les sage femmes
I spent most of the next hours comparing everything to my
previous c-section experience. Technically speaking, it was comforting to be
able to have a reference. Getting prepped, the anesthesia and even the ‘table’
were all the same. There was that sensation of pulling, similar to having a
tooth pulled times one thousand- mostly the same. The doctor here in Abidjan seemed to be a bit
more brusque, but perhaps that is just due to the experience being more recent
and fresh in my mind.
I recall complaining during both procedures, though, again,
the doctors here seemed slightly more annoyed by it. Finally the
anesthesiologist asked me to bend my knee- a test I assumed, and one I
thankfully failed. Nothing really hurt, more of an intense pressure that was
just extremely uncomfortable. Both
operations included that blank moment- just after the peak of my complaints.
I’m not sure if all women experience this but in both cases I missed the moment
of birth that is such a prominent mark in a regular birth. The release from the
birth canal, the moment of accomplishment. The cry. I assume it is what woke me
seconds later. I immediately asked about the baby, fearful I had missed more
than mere seconds. A nurse carried a tiny bundle over to me and held her up for
a kiss. She was sweet and small and wrapped in a warm green blanket. Quite the
opposing scene from little Nabih, who appeared to be 3 months old at birth and
all arms and legs exploding from his blanket. “Where is my baby?” I remember
thinking as I caught a glimpse of him in the nurse’s arms. “That can’t be my
newborn.”
Mbalia, on the other hand, was nearly lost in her wraps. She
was still covered in fuzz, a light blond fur making her appear golden and
fragile. She was whisked away to be warmed under the light, and I was left to
recover from the anesthesia. Suspended time is the only way to describe those
after moments alone in the recovery room. Everyone has cleared out, washed up,
gone off to other duties and I am lying on the bed feeling my pupils struggle
to adjust to the light.
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| Lost in her wraps |
In both cases I was left with a tremendous desire to see my
new baby, which conflicted, of course, with the nurses’ desire for me to rest
and adjust to my new stomach.
I can’t recall how long it took me to recover when Nabih was
born. Nature kindly wipes out most of the details of pain and leaves us with
more of the sense of joy. I remember the first time I tried to sit up and the
deadly sharp pain that shot through me. And then I remember sitting on the edge
of the bed, waiting for my ride, all too anxious to get out of there. Nothing
in between.
This time around? I definitely felt like I’d just come from
battle. I was exhausted, beaten up and had the bruises to show for it (further
proof that the Ivory Coast team really was more brusque- my IV’s and
tried-to-be IV’s were bruised for weeks afterward.) The worst part of the whole
deal? The beds in the Clinique were not adjustable. If I wanted to raise my
head then I needed to sit up or reach around and fluff the pillow myself, both
impossibilities.
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| Feeling like I just came from battle |
At 5:30 every morning, someone came in to give me a sponge
bath, surprisingly a warm and comforting routine. Shortly after, my medicines
were checked and adjusted (I was being treated for malaria as well as given
some pain medication.) The baby was brought in and the sage femmes continued to
check on us throughout the day.
What I don’t remember from my first experience was talk
about la gaz. I was given Lipton tea
with sugar cubes on the side for breakfast. No milk. No food. Not until I had la gaz. The nurses were checking in with
me every hour, which got Christian asking the magical (and previously very
private) question. I thought maybe I was missing something and so asked
Christian what the gaz was, just to be sure. Not only did he confirm my
thoughts, but when he mentioned my possible confusion to a nurse she gave an impression
that would make a 10 year old boy proud.
Considering that I had thrown up several times before
arriving at the hospital I wondered what in my stomach was supposed to
contribute to passing wind. Air pockets? Had they sewn me up with air pockets?
Wasn’t that dangerous? I began to doubt the abilities of the Ivorian doctors as
I wondered how many days I could go without eating. I wasn’t especially hungry,
but caffeine and sugar on an empty stomach were slightly nauseating. Christian
was convinced it was medicine and spent a good portion of the evening and next
morning encouraging me to drink it all down. I wondered how much gas counted as
la gaz and whether anyone would know
if I lied? It was my only road to freedom. Not only couldn’t I eat, but I wouldn’t
be allowed to go home either.
By the 3rd day it was becoming comical, in that horrifying
way. I couldn’t face another cup of Lipton. I was ready to go home. I’d mostly
mastered walking if not sitting up and lying down on my own. I finally felt something
that seemed good enough. We signaled the nurses and began planning for our
departure. That evening, the cafeteria sent up a bow of oatmeal. “Quaker” as
it’s called here. “They let us know you had la
gaz.” He smiled (did I imagine the wink?) as he set the tray down. I
envisioned the cafeteria workers breaking out in a musical, dancing around the
kitchen and singing about my gas as they prepared the next round of torture.
Quaker showed up again for breakfast. I was happy to be going home before lunch.
PART III- A million
medicines and a mom
If you’ve been reading for awhile, then you are aware of my
on-again-off-again relationship with doctors. I fluctuate wildly between
trusting them and preferring my own version of seeking health and wellness. In general,
I feel exactly the same way about medicine. I have a collection of essential
oils that I tend to rely on, a few teas and herbs and a strong belief in
suffering through whatever other aches and pains they won’t take care of. I
believe in garlic and cinnamon. In ginger and lemon, in yogurt and pumpkin
seeds. For whatever ails me, there is usually an herb or spice or food that has
a history of curing it.
So I was completely appalled at the list of medicines the
doctor prescribed for me. Anti- inflammatory, pain medicine, iron, antibiotic,
antiseptic. There were compresses and
gauze pads, even a sterile razor- for taking out the stitches a few days later.
The baby didn’t get off any easier. I’d already noticed a bottle of something
to soothe the stomach that was bigger than she was. They’d been giving her
formula in the nursery, waiting for my milk to come in. I imagined she had spit
up a few times, resulting in an immediate prescription. In addition, she had
vitamins- folic acid pills (pills? for an
infant?) and liquid drops, eye drops, alcohol and an antiseptic (yes, 2
different medicines for cleaning her cord- a cord that was an inch long and
going to fall off in 5-7 days, 3 of which had already passed at the hospital.)
There was another medicine for after the cord fell off and it actually stated
on the box “for the healing of umbilical
cords.”
I now had enough medicine to open a small pharmacy. While
Christian was busy encouraging me to take them all and follow doctor orders to
a tee, I was busy looking for any excuse to lighten the load. I read all of the
inserts. Several included the notice “not to be used during pregnancy or
breastfeeding,” which was enough for me. The doctor had previously given me a
prescription for carbonated calcium, in which was explicitly written “not to be
used during the last months of pregnancy.” I’d ignored that and was prepared to
ignore most of these as well. The baby vitamin insert stated they were “not
formulated for children under 1.” It was enough to shake my confidence in
doctorhood once again.
But for the tot’hema, a combination of magnesium, copper and
iron which promised to cure my anemia once and for all, and the house calls I
might have been resigned to permanent disillusion. Christian, ever popular with
the nurses and a seeming favorite of the doctor despite their initial haggling
over my admission and hospital fees, had arranged for several home visits. At
first, I’d cringed and resisted, but upon reflection I realized that even in
the States a home visit wasn’t so unusual. If it made him happy, then I could
suffer through a few more rounds with the medical team.
The nurse came the day after we’d arrived home. I thought
she was there simply to check the baby and offer a few tips on cord care. It
wasn’t until she offered to bathe me that I realized the full extent of the
visit. A warm sponge bath in the days after surgery had been welcoming, but the
prospect of one in my own home struck me as downright weird. I politely
declined.
The doctor came a few days later. She showed up with her
97-year-old mother who took a seat outside by the door. I would have loved a
photo of this woman, dressed to the nines, resting on a plastic chair on our
porch but couldn’t manage to do that without appearing to be a tourist in my own
house. The doctor, rather stylishly dressed herself, attended to my stitches in
the comfort of my bedroom. And why not? I had a rather complete pharmacy at my
disposal. She came back the following
week just to remove the final bandage and clean the area where the adhesive had
left a sticky residue. One of my prescriptions had been for this very medicine,
which also doubled as an anesthetic she informed us- for bandits. She mimed the
way chloroform is used in the movies, soaked on a rag and used to knock someone
out before a kidnapping. Christian and I both looked at each other and laughed.
“Don’t get any ideas,” we said at the same time. After all, what fun is having
your own pharmacy if you can’t knock someone out at will?
And so our birth story, which began with a furious fever and ridiculous negotiations at the most in opportune time, ends with house calls, health and good cheer. I've let go of all the things I couldn't control and managed to hang onto the things that I found especially dear.
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| We're both exhausted- no glamourous photo for us |
