Sympathy pains

Mini Me is settling into life well, issuing demands and generally wrapping us around his little finger. But, what of us? His blinking bewildered parental units? Well, I told you about the section but not its aftermath.

There were the unexpected shakes I mentioned in my last post: a full body rattle that you’d more likely associate with a junkie coming off the gear (I may be a Ma now but I’m down with the lingo doncha know!).

There’s also the damage to the body. I mean clearly there’s the section scar where they ripped me open. That was held together with what looked like a piece of black bailer-twine which incidentally The Brazilian insisted on keeping for posterity, don’t ask.

Naturally there’s a fair amount of discomfort. The hooha area is about 100 times larger than normal, that’s no exaggeration by the way, and it categorically does not like to be interfered with.

The stomach is still there of course, not as large thankfully but still sizeable enough and what I didn’t expect was that it was being held together with a few layers of gauze dressing which had to come off the day after surgery. Boy, was that soooore. This was swapped for a pair of deeply sexy beige surgical pants. Incidentally, why beige? Why not black or racy red?

These act to crush the bones off you all the while bringing down the swelling. In the first few days I felt like a Victorian lady, reaching for me smelling salts every time I inhaled or my body tried to force me into a yawn, sneeze or cough. And strictly no laughing. Why would I be laughing after major surgery you might be wondering. Well, y’see this happened:

In the middle of the night I awoke from a fitful slumber to see The Brazilian’s arse waggling at me from under his bed. Wtf? There he was waving his flip-flop around cursing at the “stoopid fly” that had taken a pint of blood from me, hon. Bastard. It took all my self control not to guffaw out loud and explode all seventy million stitches.

But never mind that, another thing that happens in the aftermath of giving birth is the bleeding. Fair enough I knew about this – I did read one book after all – but what I hadn’t anticipated were the new peeing arrangements.

Allow me to paint the scene for you. It’s 24 hours after my surgery and it’s time to get out of bed and use the facilities. After being hauled out of the scratcher by The Brazilian I shuffled towards the loo and tried to sit down. A searing pain rampaged through my insides and it dawned on me that I would have to hover instead. That’s grand but oooh the pain, I don’t know what way things are set out inside the body but I could have sworn that somebody had left their entire collection of Encyclopaedia Britannica on top of my bladder.

Eeeee by gum ’twere sore.

The other thing is that before you have a caesarean section you really ought to consider building up your leg muscles. Because, believe me, you will be hovering there for a looooong time. In front of your darling partner who has to make sure you don’t keel over from the pain/exhaustion of standing up. Incidentally, most women are told how amazing and gloriously beautiful they are after giving birth (even if it’s a white lie), my fella chose instead to compliment the exit wound, admiring the handiwork of the doctor.

Look at how she stitched it together, hon.

Well, I would if I could but there’s the small matter of my stomach hitting the floor every time I lurch forward dahlink. What an oul romantic.

And so I began to wee. And wee. Like a racehorse. for hours. In front of hisself. Good job we don’t have any prudery about us.

My consultant dropped by and, rather than congratulating me on my Hurculean efforts in the bathroom, asked me why I wasn’t up walking around yet? Eh coz it feckin’ hurts maybe? Well you can’t go home until you go for a walk.

Home? Wha’? No you misunderstand, I’ve just had seven layers of muscle and blubber cut through with a rusty chainsaw, I ain’t goin’ nowhere missus. Bring on the drugs, Jeeves. Besides, in Ireland you’re kept in for four/five days, here they’re kicking you out before you even get your knickers up round your oxters again.

Readers, I have to tell you something about the walking. I called it the zombie shuffle. Up and down the corridor, passing other wimmin, their pale faces and grimaces telling the story of their Great Unzipping. Every one of us held together by gauze and corsetry.

But here’s the thing. Y’know they say that during pregnancy the fella often gets sympathy pains? Well, mine got his after Mini Me was born. We both walked into the hospital (okay I might have waddled a little) in fine fettle the morning of his arrival. We left two days later, both grabbing the walls for stability.

Why? Because he put his knee out again. And he’s not the only whose ass has been kicked by new fatherhood. We went to get the young f’la’s heel prick test done the other day and saw another casualty: a shellshocked dad on crutches!

So here’s the moral to the story: parenthood is strictly for Olympic athletes only…


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