This post is for Echo, who misses my creative lobbing of F-bombs.
I’ve heard the argument that swearing is dumb language and that it is better to use more complex vocabulary to describe what you mean. I know there are people over the years who have refused to read my blog because of my enthusiastic passion for this word. I forgive them, and I bid them godspeed.
Because there is nothing in the world quite so satisfying, theraputic, redemptive, as a well-placed F-bomb.
Layered vocabulary, prose poetic in its complexity is all well and fine in its place. But the F-bomb has its own lyricism, it’s own very important place in the world, and Echo is right that I have not made adequate use of it lately.
Hence this story:
I did not quite leave the hospital AMA (Against Medical Advice) after Eden’s birth, but it was awfully close. Eden was losing weight rapidly and the hospital wanted her to start taking lots of formula. The pressure was no longer polite, and the hospital pediatrician staged an intervention with me, even calling Dr. Button without informing me.
At that point, Eden was not yet sick. She was losing weight as my other babies had — but like them, she had started out large. She was 48 hours old and weighed seven pounds. To me, it did not seem like an emergency that warranted taking away breastfeeding.
The intervention put me in an adversarial relationship with the hospital, so it was time to bail.
I actually cleared pretty easily — the on-call OB checked my incision, did a quick check of my vitals, shook her head that I was nuts but agreed that I could go.
Eden was harder — I agreed instantaneously to a long list of conditions and executed them, rapid-fire. I gave an ounce of formula. I scheduled daily visits with the on-call pediatrician from Dr. Button’s practice. I met with a lactation consultant, bought a high-end pump.
I scheduled a meeting with a visiting nurse of the hospital’s choosing. She would remove my staples and examine Eden. (I had had staples because the delivery was complicated and they wanted to be able to get back in quickly if they had to.)
Three hours after the intervention, we left. The staff was so mad at me they didn’t even give me my goody bag. (Ironic, really, when you consider those things are packed with free formula.)
I was happy to be in my own bed, naked baby beside me, ordering takeout and watching Spring bloom outside my window.
But that “basically-AMA” followed me. Eden’s file was full of notes about my refusing to follow medical advice. The pediatricians I faithfully saw were mad at me before they opened the exam-room door: I was the Difficult One.
By the third day, the third hostile pediatrician, they broke me.
“She’s gaining, right?” I asked.
“She’s not gaining enough,” Dr. Nasty answered.
“But she’s ganing,” I said. “She’s just five days old. She weighs 7 pounds and change.”
“She weighs almost a pound less than she did at birth.”
“What are the health implications of that? What is it that we’re afraid is going to happen?”
“The fear is that you don’t have enough milk and you are starving her.”
Oh. Is that all.
I went home miserable. I hurt all over and I felt guilty, misunderstood, anxious. I wrapped myself around my baby and went to sleep.
“Liz, she’s here,” Cute Husband said.
“Who?” I asked.
“Visiting nurse.”
Ohmahgawd I forgot about her.
The Enemy was inbound, the minion of Dr. Nasty, come to scold me in my own sanctum. I looked around the room for, like, wildly flung panties or mislaid diapers or other evidence of my delinquency.
Too late.
“Hi,” said a woman in the doorway.
She was gray and short, round, wrinkled. She smelled of cigarettes and wore old Nikes under her scrubs.
“All right, let’s have you lay out heya,” she said, in a thick Boston accent. She was a grandmother, she said. From Brockton. She did the visiting nurse gig a few days a week, took care of the grandkids the others.
I lifted my shirt and she stood over me, brandishing pliers.
“It’s been a while since I did this,” she said. I tried not to think that I could be on the maternity ward with nurses who do ten of these a day. I tried not to imagine what it would be like if the wound were not closed all the way.
One by one Grandma Brockton picked the staples, a pinch, a pull, a wince, and out. I, who had not cried once during the C-section or the days that followed, was fighting tears.
And then it was over.
“Now let’s have a look at that baby,” she said as I sat up. With dread, I handed her over.
She suspended Eden from a hand scale — a storklike sling, with a dial on the top pointing squarely at seven pounds and some ounces.
“How’s she eating?” she asked.
I rattled off the statistics, diapers, feedings, pumping. She noted it. I kept going, more statistics — recent weight numbers, night wakings, how much tea I was drinking.
“This is your third? Don’t you know by now to relax a little?”
“Dr. Nasty told me I might be starving her,” I said.
“No suh!”
“Yeah,” and then I was pouring the story out. What I did, why I did it. I was babbling. I was post-op, post-partum, post-traumatic, post-hoc-ergo-nuts.
She nodded, listening as she filled out paperwork, packed up her stuff. I kept babbling, felt like an idiot and decided to gather my manners and my dignity and escort her to the door.
“You should get back into bed,” she said. “I can see myself out. You’re fine, your baby is fine. Park in that bed and nurse her and it will all be all right.”
“Okay,” I said.
“And honey?” she added. “Don’t tell anyone I told you this, but Dr. Nasty is a pain in the ass, he always has been. He can go fuck himself. ” With a chipper wave she was gone.
Yes, my friends, that F-bomb is a rare and beautiful thing, with restorative powers beyond any other word in the English language.
There is a shrine to Grandma Brockton in my heart. What a difference she made to me. I never breathed a hint to Dr. Nasty about what she had said, but I was never quite so meek in his office again.
My heart aches for you in that time, with every nerve and instinct you have telling you to feed your baby YOUR way, and (nearly) every medical professional around you undermining your instincts.
“They” don’t seem to get that babies, and later, children, NEED their parents to be able to trust their instincts, not just for breastfeeding, but for EVERYTHING. There will be questions and doubt at so many turns, uncertainty and new experiences we have no reference for – without our instincts we would be adrift.
Thank goodness for Granny Brockton, at just the moment you needed her. And cheers to you for staying true to your heart, for maintaining the mama-tiger when Eden needed you to, even though it must have strained every fibre you had to do it. She’s healthy now, and lovely always.
Fuckin’ A.
F-bombs rule!!! So eloquent, the well-timed f-bomb has the force of all that is good AND evil. I keep it in my arsenal and find that the trick is to rarely, rarely use it; for when I do, the effect is fabulous.
Great story! I love the happy ending.
love it! i have tears in my eyes after reading this. sometimes the f-bomb can be so heartwarming!
I find the whole “lost a pound five days out ” thing to be absurd. My 6 year old did the same and took over a month to gain back his birth weight. No one ever suggested I was starving him. My SIL has never even had her milk come in until more than a week after birth. The only time a doctor ever told her to supplement was when she had 5 pound twins. Awesome for you on sticking to your guns! I admire you for sticking it out despite how difficult it is for you to get the nursin started. So glad you had a nurse who knew better to give you just the support you needed at just the right time.
Yep, you needed that F-Bomb! And I say, a nasty word is the best thing for a “Nasty” Dr.!
I always enjoy a good F-bomb, and I love that Grandma Brockton was the one to supply the perfect one for you!
Isn’t it amazing how Pediatricians have the power to build us up or tear us down? I remember the first Ped we saw with my DD (my first and only child). She was 2 days old, it was a Sunday (yes, my doc office is open on weekends), and I was a new, tired mom. He did his exam then put his hand on my shoulder and said “Now, you trust your instincts, your intuition. You call us if anything is wrong, even if you just *think* it’s wrong and there are no concrete signs. You trust yourself”. I carry that with me every time I question myself with my child and he’s still our Ped…he’s the only one I’ll see and he made such a difference to this new mom. I’m so grateful.
Hats off to you for sticking to your mama instincts and to Grandma Brockton for knowing how wise that mama instinct is. “Fucking doctors, just trying to cover their asses with our health!!!!”.
I revel in and celebrate the F-bomb. There are just some circumstances that mandate it! Go Grandma Brockton!
For every day exclamations I now have a creative variety in other languages…works great until you forget and someone who understands one of the languages is around….but when the English f-bomb rolls out everyone knows I’m seriously X (fill in needed emotion here) and it shall never be deleted from my vocabulary repertoire b/c it just makes a girl feel better!! Good for you.
Love this post. I find it both funny and tremendously sad how a single supportive or empathic comment can make such a world of difference when you’re in the middle of a crisis and how rare those comments are. My very first semester of college, all of my hair fell out in a little over a month. It was so awful… I was away from home for the first time, away from my family and close friends, going through this totally random and totally traumatizing thing, and no one knew what was wrong with me. And so day after day, I was going alone to doctor after doctor getting tested for everything (leukemia! thyroid condition! ebola!). Every conversation was the same: listing my symptoms, my medical history, answering marginally offensive questions about my personal life, agreeing to whatever test du jour they wanted to run. Finally, I reached Doctor #9… we had the exact same conversation I had had with the first eight, but at the end of listing out my symptoms, she put her clipboard down, looked at me and said, “Wow. That REALLY sucks. I am so, so sorry.” It was the single nicest thing anyone had said to me in weeks.
So, I’m totally with you. If “That REALLY sucks” can still bring me to tears, over ten years later, the F-Bomb must contain double all that mystical, I-can-make-it-through-this, feel-good power.
Power to the F-Bomb!
Oh how I have missed that F bomb.
Thank you.
Leave it to a Nurse-Grandmother-From-Brockton…that is a woman who I am sure has seen it all. (From Mass, I can say this with knowledge of where she comes from.) I like a well-deserved and appropriately placed F-Bomb myself. But then, I grew up in Southie, so I would.
I heart Grandma Brockton so much. I love a well-placed F-Bomb myself. Sometimes, however, in my line of work I have to stuff them inside while I bite the side of my cheek (usually during annoying meetings – okay, pretty much all meetings). Once I get to my car though, it’s open season. My car is filled with F-Bombs. Filled.
F-bombs are an amazing thing!
My kids actually call me f-bomb mom. Not exactly proud of it but sometimes you just need to release that tension.
what a glorious woman! what a glorious word! I had an angel nurse, too– one who dropped in the night after Harper was born when I thought I was dying. after being greusomely lectured about co-sleeping by a vile and sinister maternity nurse hours after giving birth and forced to sign a contract that said they’d take her to the nursery if they found her in my bed, I was ready to bail on the hospital AMA too. then angel-nurse wandered by as I was seething, shaking, and trying to stay awake because I refused to put my precious girl down alone in the bassinet, she soothed me, comforted me, and promised not to take my baby away if I fell asleep nursing her in bed. dear god! where is the mother-effing comon sense and compassion in the maternity ward?! I’m glad there are angels with RNs out there!
(sorry for typos-pumping at work and typing on iPhone.)
Good nurses will say that about doctors. My MIL was an ER nurse for 26 years and she called most of them assholes and would drop an f-bomb their way for being so friggin schooled and yet no sense whatsoever.
The f-bomb absolutely has its place in this world! While we’ve altered it to “Frank!” here at our house since having children, I still have to bring out the ol’ favorite stress releaser now and then.
Funny, a friend of mine was extremely upset one day and her 5 year old son consoled her by saying, “Its okay if you need to say “shit!”, Mommy.”
The world needs more Grandma Brocktons. And Mamas like you who stick up for their babies!
F-yeah! Nuff said.
I grew up in Brockton, no lie! That is where my father practiced as a surgeon for 32 years. He is not Dr. Nasty, though.
Well said. Good for Grandma Brockton.
And yes, sometimes that F-bomb packs a whole lotta punch when it’s needed most.
Love this story. Your blog makes me so happy!!
Absolutely perfect
So glad that she came along at just the right time for you.
Where was she when I needed her? I don’t swear often, but I can definitely appreciate an F-bomb like that.
Ha! Love it!!
The F-Bomb is the most underrated word. A word that can be used in so very many ways. Thank you, Grandma Brockton, for using it in the most appropriate fashion.
Hello! I often read your blog, love it, but have never left a post. I would like to share my story with you, its the opposite of your story. My daughter was born 3 weeks early, due to eclampsia, not pre-eclampsia, full blown eclampsia and I had VERY high blood pressure with this babe. The kind that I should have really had a stroke with. Anyway, that is beside the point. The point is, that this was my first baby and I was soooo ready to try the breast feeding thing. Oh man, did I try. I nursed what seemed like 23 1/2 hours out of the day. I was EXHAUSTED!! I tried and I tried and I tried. I tried pumping, with one of those high dollar contraptions, no milk. I went tot he lactaction specialist 2 times a week ( an hours drive one way, mind you). my husband and I affectionaly named her the Boob Nazi. She gave me a supplemental nursing system, a wonderful torture device for me, as I was allergic the tape necessary to said device, but I kept using it. The Boob Nazi kept telling me, keep trying, it WILL work. Well, 4 weeks later, and with a baby who was down to 4 lbs, I stopped. I almost killed her. Wow, that was kina tough to type, but the truth. I was trying so hard listening to what every one else around me wanted me to do, that I caused my baby failure to thrive. She was sooooo tiny, such little twigs for legs, no clothes that fit. It was AWFUL!!! I clearly remember the day, a small miracle considering I hadnt really slept in a month, given my poor starving, crying around the clock baby, that I broke down in the pediatricians office. His nurse said, enoguh!! Tell the Boob Nazi you are done and FEED that baby. I gave up, or rather, I decided to put her needs ahead of my own. I bought the formula ,and I had to go through about 6 different types of bottles before I could find one her small, emanicated mouth could fit around. She ate. She slept. It was GLORIOUS!! She FINALLY started to put on a little weight. My milk NEVER did come in. What someone forgot to mention to me, was that with the crazy high blood pressure and the blood pressure meds, that sometimes your milk just doesnt come in. Well, thanks for that info 2 months too late. But, my point is, Good for you!! Good for you for knowing what was right for YOUR baby. We are all different people, and not everything works for everyone, but, I learned in that first month that I knew what was right for her, even if it went against EVERYTHING everyone else was telling me. It was that moment that I learned, I was a mom, and it was my job to do what I thoguth was best. Moms, we have to stick together!!!!
I really wanted to drop an f-bomb on witnessing my friends baby’s birth. They asked her no less than six times if she was on drugs!!! WTF!! that was just the start of an extremely unfortunate experience, including holding her thighs together so she wouldn’t push, while phoning the NICU because the baby’s oxygen was low, and football sized hematomas, and leaving her holding the baby for three hours unable to get up or put him down… Needless to say, many f-bombs (I resisted wanting to punch people) needed to fly, poor mama!!!
i f-ing love it!!! recently a co-worker told me that a woman using the f word was degrading and trashy; she doesn’t have a f-ing clue!!! ;D Go Liz!!!
When I was feeling abused or used by someone or some situation, my Mom would tell me, “Val, when are you going to learn to tell them to F*** off?!” It’s one of my favorite memories of her, and one of the things that cheers me up when I’m feeling beaten.
I’m so glad Grandma Brockton knows the time to use such phrases, and that someone else appreciates the lyricism of a word that most of my friends would berate me for using.
All hail the F-Bomb. So very necessary at certain times and in certain places.
I’ve just found your blog and LOVE it. Props to you for sticking to your guns. There is a lot to be said for instinct.
Abbe
Has the blog where CH used the f-bomb in defense of having three little girls still around?
Either I’m blind or seems to have vanished.
Ha! Loves it! Long live Grandma Brockton!
Oh, I know just how you feel! I was almost reported to the Child Protective Services because my son was so little. He nursed and then ate all the time, but didn’t really gain weight. I would go to the doctor’s visits and the first one was so very hateful. I was miserable – he was my first. I hated my doctor and after the 3rd visit, I found a new one. Who seemed to understand. Even today 6 and a half years later, my son is skinny, but tall. It made those first months so very hard and exhausting. I fought so hard with the hospital and the doctors, but in the end it was so very worth it.
TFS your story.
As the mother of a baby girl who had a bright orange “FAILURE TO THRIVE” sticker on her medical chart for nearly a year, I can relate so strongly with everything you’ve written. She’s fine now… almost 13, wiry, plucky, and thriving in ways I could have never imagined. Some how mommas know how to do what’s right, medicine be damned!
f-yeah… go grandma brockton..
obviously the doctor had no f-ing clue what you and eden was going through. thank goodness she is thriving and growing into a beautiful little lady 
the f-bomb is a necessary..