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WHY SERBS DESERVE TO DIE OUT FROM THE WHITE PLAGUE* - Part IV
Featuring Mama-Kangaroo and Nurse Slobodanka in the episode:
WARNING:
The first face I see after opening my eyes is the face of my anesthesiologist (the one that is not "just anyone"). My breathing is irregular, I am grasping for air as if hiccupping, and he is holding a mask on my face while I am struggling to take it off so that I can ask: "W-w-whe-er-e-e is m-m-my chi-i-i-ild?" He puts the mask back on my face and answers: "It's a son, 3.800 grams, Apgar 9/10. Everything is in perfect order. You have problems establishing normal breathing, so I have to hold a mask on your face." I wrestle arms with him and take the mask off again. I have to ask: "W-w-whe-er-e-e is m-m-my t-t-tooh?" "Oh, that? We broke it during the intubation. Don't worry, I caught it and saved it for you." I start crying, and that only makes the breathing more problematic. I am suffocating, coughing, but I have to ask one more thing... "W-w-whe-er-e-e is my doctor?" "She went home. Don't worry. I am with you. We are going to the intensive care unit. I will stay with you until breathing is stabilized, and you wake up completely." I give up on asking further questions and try concentrating on breathing instead. It is OK. I am alive. My child is alive. Everything else we can survive... We arrive into an IC-room where there are about 10 women, and they park my bed-on-wheels next to the window. I am shaking because I am cold, I can't seem to regain normal body temperature after the operation. I am covered with just one blanket. The window I am next to is broken, and the cold air is blowing in. It is March. It is dark. It is night. I am icy. My breathing is now normal and I am not talking nonsense anymore. I can make sense. The anesthesiologist has left. It is just that now I am very, very frozen. "Nurse, can you give me a night-gown?" "No." "What do you mean - no? I was told that we are not allowed to bring our own night-gowns and that we will be given one in the hospital." "Hospital protocol does not allow women to have any clothes on during the first night after an operation. You will have to sleep naked." "Can you, please, change my bed-linen at least; it is all wet and bloody." Nurse Slobodanka approaches me, uncovers the blanket and sees that I am lying in the puddle of blood. "What on earth is this???!!! Why did you bleed out on the sheets??!!" "Well, I did not put the sanitary pads right away... I wasn't totally conscious when they brought me in... I could not breathe properly... I did not feel that I am bleeding... I did not think of it..." "Where am I supposed to find you a clean bed-linen now??!! So you better lie down like that, I can't help you!" "Can you, please, at least hand me my bag, so that I can take my pads out..." "Hrmpf!" Hrmpfette turns around, and leaves the Intensive care unit. I start crying. Again. "Calm down", says a woman that is lying in the bed across mine, "I will hand you the bag". I watch her gratefully as she slowly gets out of her bed, takes the bag with IV off the hook above her bed and puts it in right pocket of her bathrobe. She then takes the bag with urine that is hanging on the left side of her bed, and puts it in the left pocket of her bathrobe. She slowly moves towards me. It becomes clear to me what Intensive care unit is. It is the unit where patients intensively care about each other. "Can you, please, give me my panties, too, they are in the outside pocket of the bag...", I am asking the kind woman. "Oh, no, don't do that. If nurse Slobodanka sees you, you will get in trouble. Panties are not allowed. And, in general - watch out that you do not get in a fight with her. Otherwise, all of us will be receiving very interesting injections..." "But, how will I manage without panties? The sanitary pad will move." "Just hold your legs tightly together." Ok, I will. If I had kept them tight in the first place, none of this would ever have happened. My bed-linen is already bloody, so I guess I can't make it any worse. Two hours later, the doctor on call is coming to see how I am doing. She is nice. She looks into my eyes. She addresses me with respect. She asks me for my name, she inquires how I am feeling and if I need anything. I decide that she is a human being to which Woman-In-Distress can confide. "Well, I am cold. Look, this window here is broken, cold air is blowing right on me. And the nurse won't give me a night-gown. And she won't even change my sheets, I am lying in the puddle of blood. Look." I uncover the blanket. Nice doctor is outraged. "Slobodanka, bring one night-gown here. Now! And change these sheets." While nurse Slobodanka is changing the sheets, whispering curses of protest, I am inquiring about my child. They brought him in for me to see him while I still was not breathe normally and could not see him properly from all the tears that were rolling down my face. The nice doctor tells me that I have to wait until tomorrow, that it is best that I rest and recuperate first. "Sleep some. You will feel better tomorrow. I will come in 4 hours to give you another dose of epidural. Your anesthesiologist left a catheter in, and told me to give you one dose every four hours, since I am on call tonight. At least you won't be in pain and will be able to sleep." As soon as she leaves the room, a round of applause is heard in the room. "Bravo! You are the only one that ever managed to fight out a night-gown!" My trophy for tonight. A night-gown.
Footnotes: * "White Plague" is a popular phrase used to refer to low birth rates.
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STORIES FROM MATERNITY WARDS Mama-Kangaroo 002
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