|
home petition media reactions comments awards donations contact |
|
|
Civic initiative |
|
|
MAMA-KANGAROO 053
I was going to my check-up at the hospital, firmly decided to have a good time, should the doctor decide it was time for the delivery. It’s the happiest day in any woman’s life, I thought, the day she becomes a mother. I was somehow expecting the bad conditions there and I was ready. I was thinking positively – those few days are nothing compared to the joy that awaits me once I arrive home with my son. My friends have warned me what to expect: horrible bathrooms, bad food, unfriendly staff and so on. But, despite of all this I had also packed hair conditioner, bath foam, nice lingerie and other pretty things that I knew I wouldn’t get to use, but I felt better knowing I had them. Of course, the doctor decided that it was indeed time, nine days too early, but I trusted him, so I agreed. The delivery went smoothly, I would wish it on anyone. To my surprise, the staff in the delivery room was quite polite. Maybe because my doctor is older so he commands more authority. After this you are transferred to the ward and, it seems, somewhat forgotten. My son was born at 10.50pm and I would probably have spent the entire night completely wet and wrapped in blood soaked sheets if my roommates hadn’t come to my rescue. There were six of us in a six-bed room. I will forever remember those wonderful women – all of different age, educational background and habits. Rather then the nurses, they supported me and helped me with the wound, with climbing on the bed that was too tall, taught me how to walk without my underwear and most importantly, how to breastfeed. If it weren’t for the precious pieces of advice of the experienced mothers I probably would have developed mastistis in front of all those doctors and nurses, because I didn’t know what to do with the excess milk. And they also knew how to get answers, from the otherwise silent and significantly-head-nodding medical personnel, to the questions that were troubling me. You are being treated as a baby factory without a name (the infamous “mother” term) and it is not recommended to show you knowledge or interest in something. “Well-read” mothers are not their favourite patients. Our hospital (in Chacak) implemented a “baby friendly” system which would be very nice if it was implemented fully. Often, the babies in the Baby Unit are given formula, and brought back to you full, so you don’t know what to do with your milk which is making your breast want to pop. And then, there are the pediatricians, who are trying to find fault with your baby (even though there really isn’t any) and are just frightening you. Still, I cannot say that that the entire staff, in general, is unfriendly. There are all sorts of them: rude, uninterested, angry, kind, thoughtful. I have the best memories of the midwives in the delivery room and the pediatric nurses. I wouldn’t say the same of the maternity ward nurses or the doctors there, excluding my doctor, but I was almost on first name basis with him, so it’s understandable. I am still trying to forget the food and bathroom experience, and failing. Bread rolls made with rotten flower, cooked meals that make you want to throw up, the sad tea wannabe – pathetic. I managed to survive my stay (4 days in total) on biscuits, milk and bread rolls that my own family was providing. They had a very nice laugh at the expense of my night gown – washed out blue, with bleach stains, ten sizes too big and with strings instead of buttons. All of this combined with my “small-steps-so things-don’t-fall-out-from-between-my-legs” walk. And I took so much effort to get ready for the visit, taking a shower in a drafty bathroom, with no shower curtain, with over-flowing sinks and with a toilet that looks more like public than like a hospital one. But then, I would go back to my room and they would bring me my little “bread loaf” to feed him and I would be so happy and content, even in the land of Serbia. But… But, my son is five now and I still don’t dare repeat this delivery adventure because I am not sure that I can convince myself that those few days are nothing compared to all the wonderful things afterwards and … I can’t be sure that my roommates will be such lovely, obliging women, again. I am five years older and my nerves are slightly more strained . And the staff is still the same, the bathrooms renovated and then again ruined and the food still “yucksy” as my soon would put it. And the babies are less and less…
|
STORIES FROM MATERNITY WARDS Mama-Kangaroo 002
|
|
sponsors and friends
|
|
 |
|
