It's like talking to an old friend

I found you again, blog. You're still here, waiting for me patiently in the depths of the internet. You're only mine, and no one reads you but me.
The man who I love (new man, long-ish story) has been encouraging me to write, and asked me about this place where I used to occasionally come to spew ideas onto a screen.
On Saturday we had a busy shift on my labor and delivery unit. I woke up very early on Sunday to write about it, because as soon as I was conscious the day was playing in my head. The sentences are broken, it's a little graphic. Life, however, is graphic. Especially as a nurse. Especially as a human being.

~3/8/15. But this is about yesterday. Full moon.

When I went to a Saturday shift that turned out like a Friday shift on steroids.

It started with 2 transfers to ante/postpartum. One is only 27 weeks, she is 4 cm dilated and nervous. She gently reminds me to do the things I promised to her. I discharged her from the tracing  system, then re-admitted. The other has been delivered for hours. Her baby is cute, she is kind of a pain. This is her 5th kid,  or something nuts.

Then it was an admission for induction of labor. Her baby's heart was decel-ing during mild contractions before labor even started. She is funny, though. I talk to her about the possibility of pre-eclampsia, what I need to know about, what signs to watch out for. I have a bad feeling, so I hint this to the doctor. Pre-eclampsia destroys placentas. Or baby’s reserve for labor. Or something.

Somewhere in this day, early in this day, a patient lost her 38-week pregnancy. I can’t do that today, I say to my charge nurse.

Next was a patient admitted in active labor. She was ready to push as I got her off the stretcher and on to the labor bed. She was strong and brave, no epidural, no time. She didn’t want to, but she did. Her baby’s father came in as the baby came out.  

Was I in the OR yesterday? No. No I didn’t go there.

After she delivered, I had a break. Thank goodness.

I came back and covered someone else’s break. That patient had pain through several epidural replacements. I also went back to the patient who I admitted for the induction of labor. She had more decelerations after cytotec. Flipped and oxygenized.

Then came stop-and-drop #2. She was on her knees facing the head of the bed. I couldn’t trace her baby's heart. We rushed to get everything ready. Blood everywhere, but a happy, normal, delivery. I was nervous the whole time. I forgot that some babies probably don’t need continuous monitoring.

Recovered her. Admitted her and her new baby. In and out of checking someone else’s blood transfusions. Thankful for my nurses who came to my rescue.

Covering someone else’s delivered patient all of a sudden. Push to get patients off the unit. Go into the new patient’s room. Fever. Tachycardia. Dizziness with ambulation. Beautiful smile full of braces. Talk to the chief. Acetaminophen.

Transfer the stop-and-drop, normal delivery, walking momma, baby and dad. Jess is helping me again.  Ask someone else to give the acetaminophen 1 gram. Thanks, Donna.

Come back. Check that the patient got the medicine.

Patient rolls in on a stedy. That’s how that word is spelled, google drive. It’s a transport tool, that a patient steps onto and leans/sits into. Hard to explain. I think the ED ran out of wheelchairs. Full moon.

Room 10 is clean. Baby sitting in her vagina, head trying to come out. Can you call my husband? No. Take off the shorts, the underwear drenched in amniotic fluid. It’s on me. She is pushing. Push up her sweatshirt so the baby can go there. Carina gets a delivery cart. I try to get fetal heart tones. Baby is out. Admit mom and baby over room phone. Mom turns a little blue and gets cold. Blood pressure’s ok. Baby is gorgeous. Next nurse is here, surprised that the baby had been born. Chart something. Full moon.

Shift done. Check on him. He’s been asleep, thank goodness.

Stumble out of hospital. So good to be outside. It’s not freezing. Get on the terrible, nausea-inducing, bus that is the D8. Traffic. Tired. Feet throbbing. Legs throbbing. Cloudy, fuzzy.

Arrive. Get off. They always lower the bus for me, it’s really nice.

Get inside. He’s there, waiting for me, ready to hold me. Everything. Hurts.

Shower. Clean it off. Empty Diva Cup.

Out. Television. Talking, trying to explain and I can’t. Pizza. Pitch Perfect.

Bed. Talking. We talk about my mom. I want her to share my happiness, and she won’t. Lovemaking. Can’t have sex, or won’t have sex. Orgasm. Sobbing, wracking, tears. He’s holding me again, telling me it’s ok to cry, to let it out, to breathe. I’m sobbing out “I’m sorry,” too many times.

Sleep.~

Journaling is something I have always done, since I was a little girl, since I was 8 years old and I got my first journal for my birthday. It is small-ish, mostly bright purple with a design on it, it has a lock on it; the ey is long gone. It talks a lot about my best friend, about fights with my siblings. I have had so many notebooks over the years, full of events, plans, big ideas - or not so big - and the magic of ordinary days.
I don't think this blog has taken off for me because I love to write - physically, I mean, with a pen. I still have a callous on my left middle finger.

That said, this has value. It's doesn't get lost, it doesn't take up room. I can search for dates or ideas with a simple ctrl-f. I'm still deciding.