Being a mom alone is very hard, from the time you conceive your child, through the 9 months of carrying her in your tummy, giving birth and taking care of her through life. I am a mom and to make it more difficult, I am single.
I got pregnant at an early age of 20, my boyfriend of 5 years left me when my daughter was turning 1. It was not a very easy breakup mind you. I attempted suicide and had a nervous breakdown because of it.
Life was never the same, everything is a 100 times difficult compared to everybody else. It was hard going to school, getting work and having fun was out of the question.
I am a senior coordinator in a computer company and at the same time since I want my nursing career to progress, I applied for a nursing training for 6 months in AFP Medical Center. Working 2 jobs was never easy and nobody said it was but since I was determined to make something out of my life I went for it.
Since then I often find myself crying for all the reasons I can think of, like when I miss my daughter, when I have to work even though I haven’t gotten any sleep, for all the times that my daughter has a project and I can’t be there to help her, for all the times she needs me and I can’t be there. I cry for all the times my sister’s friend teases her whenever I am not at home.
I am boarding just to make it to my 2 jobs and I only get to see my daughter on Saturdays. I know it is unfair but I have to do something to make way for me getting a better job to secure her future.
Since I started my 2 jobs, I often find myself getting irritable always and my patience is wearing thin whenever my daughter calls me or even when I am at home. After that I cry because I know I hurt her feelings and I know she just wants to get my attention but I can’t help it, I’m so tired and I myself don’t know what to do with our lives.
To make up for everything I always explain to her why I get angry all the time, why I can’t be with her. It is so heartbreaking whenever she calls crying because she needs my help and I can’t be there. I cry for all the time she is chosen for a part in a school play but later on will be replaced because I am not there to buy what she needs or attend to the meetings.
I felt my daughter is so “kawawa” because I can’t be there to support her. May be that’s the reason why until now I am not vigilant in looking for a nursing job or entertaining the thought of applying for a staff position in AFP for I want to spend as many time as I can with my daughter after my training and pick up the pieces again.
I blame myself for everything that my daughter is going through, why she cant enjoy having a mom, why she cant enjoy being a kid and why she gets hurt. Its so hard to be a single mom but I am proud to be one.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Daddies lose babies too...
This patient who in the recent past has affected my life most profoundly never actually took a breath on this planet.
I received his mother, A, to a room on our floor shortly after midnight one night. She had presented to ER at 15+ weeks gestation with ruptured membranes and intermittent vaginal bleeding; the OB staff suspected chorioamnionitis as the culprit. Rather than risk the infection becoming overwhelming, the decision was made to do a dilatation and evacuation later on in the morning. She was accompanied by her mother and father; her baby’s father was at home.
I settled A into her room, showed her how to use the call bell, and let her and her parents know that I was there if she needed anything. Her assessment was within what I would have expected for an early second-trimester rupture of membranes. She had received 1000mcg of Cytotec in the Emergency Department and had received 2mg of Morphine IV for pain prior to arrival on the floor. She was not in any pain and I was hoping she would be able to sleep a little before going to the OR for her procedure, as this was her first pregnancy.
About 20 minutes later, A's father came rushing out of the room and asking someone to go to the room immediately; the only words he could get out were “the baby”. I knew instantly what was happening. I got her into bed (she had gotten up to void), called for help, and could see her baby’s tiny legs hanging from her vagina. We got the OB resident to the room and she delivered the baby. Five minutes later, the placenta was delivered as well.
Throughout the entire situation A was amazingly calm. I talked to her as soothingly as I could and reassured her that she would be taken care of. The OB resident was very professional and reassuring to the mother, and I had great colleagues who helped me more than I can articulate.
After the delivery, I asked A if she wanted to see her baby, and she said that she did. A's mother did not want to see the baby, nor did she want her daughter to. When things calmed down, we talked about this some more. A’s mother asked me if the baby was well-formed, and I said that he (she delivered a little boy) was, albeit he was very tiny and his eyelids were still fused. She continued to be adamant that no one should see the baby.
This opened up an opportunity for us to talk about the grief process. I made it clear that we would not force anyone to do anything, but that often, families experiencing a fetal loss are greatly helped by seeing the baby that they have loved and cherished. Having something concrete to grieve so often helps them incorporate that soul into their lives in a meaningful way. I think, though, that more than anything, this lady was afraid that the baby was grossly malformed and did not want to see that. I think this because once we talked about how he looked, she seemed more comfortable with the idea of her daughter seeing the baby, though she herself still did not want to. That was okay by me, as long as A got to see the child she had tried to four years to conceive.
I weighed, measured, and took pictures and footprints of this baby for her, and told her that whenever she was ready, I would bring him to her. She was ready right then; I got the baby and before handing him to her, described him once more so she knew what to expect. She cradled her son and touched him, and her eyes welled up with tears. I could tell she wanted to be alone with him. I left the room and allowed them their time and space to say goodbye. I felt very privileged to be able to give that to her.
What I will remember most, however, is this baby’s father. He came after A’s parents had gone home, and after A was finished holding her baby. I was in the room going over some paperwork stuff with them, and it hit me: I need to offer him the opportunity to see his baby if he wants. To the surprise of both of us, he said yes without a second’s hesitation. I gave him the choice of bringing the baby to the room, or having him come with me to where the baby was. He wanted to come with me. I’m not sure why, but I guess it doesn’t really matter.
I took him into the room where his son lay wrapped in a tiny blanket, and let him know it was ok to open the blanket and touch the baby. Almost immediately, this strong, macho, man’s-man burst into tears. He asked me to leave; I was happy to, and told him to please take as long as he needed. I stood far enough outside the room to be available but not intrusive. I heard the sound of his weeping in the hallway and it was one of the most heartbreaking sounds I have ever heard. Tears began to roll down my cheeks in front of God and everybody, and there was not a thing I could do to stop it. I didn’t really want to anyway.
Shortly thereafter, the baby’s father came out and allowed as how he was finished saying goodbye. I walked him back to A’s room so they could be alone together and went to prepare the baby to be taken down to pathology. If I live to be a hundred, I don’t think I will ever forget what I saw when I walked back into that room. Beside the body of this beautiful tiny boy were wet marks from the tears that his father had cried.
Daddies lose babies too, and I am forever grateful to the baby that taught me that.
Article From: www.allnurses.com
I received his mother, A, to a room on our floor shortly after midnight one night. She had presented to ER at 15+ weeks gestation with ruptured membranes and intermittent vaginal bleeding; the OB staff suspected chorioamnionitis as the culprit. Rather than risk the infection becoming overwhelming, the decision was made to do a dilatation and evacuation later on in the morning. She was accompanied by her mother and father; her baby’s father was at home.
I settled A into her room, showed her how to use the call bell, and let her and her parents know that I was there if she needed anything. Her assessment was within what I would have expected for an early second-trimester rupture of membranes. She had received 1000mcg of Cytotec in the Emergency Department and had received 2mg of Morphine IV for pain prior to arrival on the floor. She was not in any pain and I was hoping she would be able to sleep a little before going to the OR for her procedure, as this was her first pregnancy.
About 20 minutes later, A's father came rushing out of the room and asking someone to go to the room immediately; the only words he could get out were “the baby”. I knew instantly what was happening. I got her into bed (she had gotten up to void), called for help, and could see her baby’s tiny legs hanging from her vagina. We got the OB resident to the room and she delivered the baby. Five minutes later, the placenta was delivered as well.
Throughout the entire situation A was amazingly calm. I talked to her as soothingly as I could and reassured her that she would be taken care of. The OB resident was very professional and reassuring to the mother, and I had great colleagues who helped me more than I can articulate.
After the delivery, I asked A if she wanted to see her baby, and she said that she did. A's mother did not want to see the baby, nor did she want her daughter to. When things calmed down, we talked about this some more. A’s mother asked me if the baby was well-formed, and I said that he (she delivered a little boy) was, albeit he was very tiny and his eyelids were still fused. She continued to be adamant that no one should see the baby.
This opened up an opportunity for us to talk about the grief process. I made it clear that we would not force anyone to do anything, but that often, families experiencing a fetal loss are greatly helped by seeing the baby that they have loved and cherished. Having something concrete to grieve so often helps them incorporate that soul into their lives in a meaningful way. I think, though, that more than anything, this lady was afraid that the baby was grossly malformed and did not want to see that. I think this because once we talked about how he looked, she seemed more comfortable with the idea of her daughter seeing the baby, though she herself still did not want to. That was okay by me, as long as A got to see the child she had tried to four years to conceive.
I weighed, measured, and took pictures and footprints of this baby for her, and told her that whenever she was ready, I would bring him to her. She was ready right then; I got the baby and before handing him to her, described him once more so she knew what to expect. She cradled her son and touched him, and her eyes welled up with tears. I could tell she wanted to be alone with him. I left the room and allowed them their time and space to say goodbye. I felt very privileged to be able to give that to her.
What I will remember most, however, is this baby’s father. He came after A’s parents had gone home, and after A was finished holding her baby. I was in the room going over some paperwork stuff with them, and it hit me: I need to offer him the opportunity to see his baby if he wants. To the surprise of both of us, he said yes without a second’s hesitation. I gave him the choice of bringing the baby to the room, or having him come with me to where the baby was. He wanted to come with me. I’m not sure why, but I guess it doesn’t really matter.
I took him into the room where his son lay wrapped in a tiny blanket, and let him know it was ok to open the blanket and touch the baby. Almost immediately, this strong, macho, man’s-man burst into tears. He asked me to leave; I was happy to, and told him to please take as long as he needed. I stood far enough outside the room to be available but not intrusive. I heard the sound of his weeping in the hallway and it was one of the most heartbreaking sounds I have ever heard. Tears began to roll down my cheeks in front of God and everybody, and there was not a thing I could do to stop it. I didn’t really want to anyway.
Shortly thereafter, the baby’s father came out and allowed as how he was finished saying goodbye. I walked him back to A’s room so they could be alone together and went to prepare the baby to be taken down to pathology. If I live to be a hundred, I don’t think I will ever forget what I saw when I walked back into that room. Beside the body of this beautiful tiny boy were wet marks from the tears that his father had cried.
Daddies lose babies too, and I am forever grateful to the baby that taught me that.
Article From: www.allnurses.com
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