My aversion to hospitals was solidified after the birth of my first child. It was a grueling sixteen hours of labor that ended in an emergency cesarean section. The food was reminiscent of something from a school cafeteria: unidentifiable meat and lukewarm mush. I was left to care for a newborn while feeling overwhelmed and confused, like a deer caught in headlights. The showers were controlled to avoid burns, which meant I couldn’t enjoy a decent hot shower. After four days in what I could only describe as hospital purgatory, I vowed to avoid hospitals for the rest of my life.
Two years later, I found myself expecting baby number two under stressful circumstances. Medically, this was a pregnancy that was thought to be impossible. The anxiety of a high-risk pregnancy triggered intense memories of my previous hospital stay. Yet, as I approached the eighth month, I began to countdown the days until my scheduled c-section—perhaps a brief escape from my home life. With a toddler in the throes of the terrible twos, I knew that even mediocre hospital food and lukewarm showers would be a welcome relief.
On the day of the c-section, everything was orchestrated with precision. From valet parking to registration, it was a stark contrast to my first experience. Within 20 minutes of her birth, I was already nursing my new daughter. That evening, I was treated to a delicious hot meal, and a nurse tended to my swollen feet every hour. I luxuriated in a steaming shower that felt heavenly.
Wait a second—this wasn’t a hospital stay; it felt more like a vacation!
By day three, the doctor announced I was ready to go home. Overwhelmed with emotion, I began to cry. Unsure of how to respond to my postpartum tears, the doctor called for a nurse. When she arrived, I voiced my despair, “But…I don’t want to leave! This vacation isn’t over yet!”
That evening, my nurse surprised me with a delightful hot chocolate and offered a comforting hug. She took my baby to the nursery, encouraging me to rest. I took her advice—popping a Percocet, sipping my hot chocolate, and watching TV alone, I managed to sleep for a solid nine hours. It was blissful!
The next morning, I reluctantly packed our things and returned home. Reality hit hard. I no longer had a team of nurses at my beck and call, a chef preparing meals, or a night nanny to ease my burdens. Instead, my TV was stuck on a loop of cartoons, my coffee was cold, and I was once again dealing with bathroom visits under watchful eyes. It felt like my vacation had abruptly ended.
A year has passed since the birth of my second child, yet not a day goes by without me dreaming of being able to recreate that incredible hospital experience. Until then, I will cherish those four days of “vacation” for the joy they brought me amidst the challenges of motherhood.
Motherhood indeed has a way of turning a hospital stay into an unexpected escape from reality.
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