I think I've hit a wall with this whole experience. I have to say. I'm glad the hospital is there and I am grateful for the care, but I am so frustrated and tired of it at this point, and I want her out. I know that sounds crazy to everyone who isn't me, because Penelope sounds so small and fragile, but she's so much stronger than she was, and we're at an awkward point in her treatment.
I think all preemies go through a time where they are strong enough to object to treatment -- IV pokes, long hours of sitting alone instead of being carried and cuddled, and especially the blasted gauvage tube (the one they feed down her throat every mealtime) -- while not yet quite being able to leave the environment of the hospital. So I get that this is a bit of a transition. But it is not happening fast enough for me. The tube to her stomach is what really gets me steamed. She's surely ready for a bottle when I can't be there with my (really nearly useless) breasts, but they keep gagging her with that fucking tube, and I want to punch the nurse every time. She did not mind when she was tiny and weak. Now she's big enough to know it feels uncomfortable and wrong, and she hates it. I don't know what the hell is going on over there; I keep asking for her to be given bottles, and they keep NOT doing it without explaining why.
If it's an issue of her not being strong enough to maintain her body temperature and suck on a bottle, then put her back in the frigging isolette. I mean, how does that logic not make sense? Let her do one thing at a time, and let the first thing be what'll fatten her up so she can do the second thing. Explain where I'm going wrong with this.
Here's the thing: Who goes to hospitals? Sick people. My daughter's not sick. She's small. And fragile. And being around a germy hospital is not going to help. There's another mom in there with me, her daughter came at 32 weeks, 2 weeks after Penelope, and now she has a staph infection from her IV site. Are they kidding me? That's enough. I want her home and away from IVs and away from a million sick people and their germs.
Today I do battle over the bottle. I want her eating like a normal person. Last night she spit up with the tube down her throat and I don't even know how that happens. And I just had to put her little bundled-up self back down in the isolette and walk out? I never saw my daughter spit up before. I'm tired of not being the one to take care of all this. She's my kid, hand her over.
(over to you, sally field.)