As a side note (ha… some “side” note), these idiots had a hard enough time disengaging from their nurses’ station conversations to assist me in the restroom — one word: stitches — so my mother had to assume that responsibility. (Thanks, Mom!) Only once when she was out having lunch and the nurses had refused to answer my call for a good half hour, I was forced to crawl over to the restroom by myself. After I had done my thing and realized I would need help getting back up and out, I gave the bathroom pullstring a firm yank. About five or ten minutes later, a nurse showed up and proceeded to give me a stern lecture. My mom arrived back only moments later, so it was actually her who helped pull up my undies and get me back into bed. (Thanks again, Ma!)
Another time, a nurse took it upon herself to downgrade my meds from 10 mg of oxycodone and prescription-strength Ibuprofen to Tylenol 3 and Advil. She wouldn’t switch me back until I’d agree to submit to a vaginal exam (where the hell were you THEN, mom?!) but even afterwards (ow) she wouldn’t agree to give me the full dosage. It took my paging an OBGYN (not my own) via my cellphone to set things straight. He even left a memo on my chart warning the nurses not to mess with my meds without a doctor’s approval, which was certainly nice of him, but the fact that such a note was even necessary is pretty damned sad.
The labor & delivery nurses at this hospital were excellent, but the recovery staff behaved like med-school dropouts and — in my humble opinion — deserve to be buried alive in one mass grave. (Does that sound a bit harsh?) I’m guessing hospitals figure that once labor is over, the odds of them incurring a malpractice lawsuit drastically decreases so they may as well bring out the misfits. (No, not too harsh at all.)
But I digress. Back to the tale of how I starved my newborn baby.