5-1-1

This morning we went to the hospital. Well, we left for the hospital at noon, precisely, which is about right for us.

Anyway, we went to the hospital because Ms had been having contractions every five minutes, lasting for at least a minute, for an hour — four hours, actually. This is the 5-1-1 “rule” the doctors gave us to determine when to head to the hospital.

So here’s the thing about the rule: it’s bullshit. Or, at least, it’s woefully incomplete, because it doesn’t include an intensity component. 

They didn’t admit us, which is fine. Ms isn’t far enough along for that, apparently, and that’s fine too. The child will come when he comes, and I’ll err on the side of getting Ms professional care over anecdotal care any day of the week.

What was frustrating was that this was the first time we’d gotten any sort of clear description from anyone in an official medical capacity of the effect that a “real” contraction would have. “Hard to stand upright,” “difficult to walk,” “you can’t catch your breath.” It’s frustrating that this is the first time anyone with professional credentials has put the concepts into words (no offense to anyone without professional credentials, but there’s enough variation in your reports—from “you’ll know when you know” to “you won’t be able to see and you might puke”—that it’s hard to draw effective lessons other than “this will suck”).

So I have a suggestion. I mean, as a society we could expose boys and girls to childbirth at a young age (er, other than the obvious exposure to it that everyone has one way or another) so that we have an intuitive understanding of what the process is like. I’m all for that, but the fuddy duddies who make up this country would never allow it. Absent that, we could try not leaving the patient to fend for herself.

Let me explain.

The patient, Ms, has never done this before, has no professional experience with labor, has extensive anecdotal experience of questionable accuracy. She is supposed to make the decision to go to the hospital on the basis of “you’ll know” and “it’ll be different”? Well, shit, this morning was different. It’s just another case of the abysmal state of American medical care, because patients are prevented from enjoying comprehensive treatment by, no doubt, insurance companies. What should happen is … well it could be a number of things.

First, they could admit the patient when she feels like she’s ready (i.e., consistent, regular contractions) and let her enjoy professional care until the baby arrives, even if it’s a couple of days.

Second, they could admit the patient under the same circumstances—but in this case tell the patient that when she’s having consistent, regular contractions she should come in—and then take the opportunity to walk through what the next few hours or days could involve, the signs to look for, etc. Maybe give us a checklist. I’m sure there are many on the Internet, but the Internet is full of conflicting, biased, and incomplete information. In other words, eliminate the fucking shame many patients doubtless feel at being too wimpy or having a false alarm. 

Third, and this is a bigger social engineering project, try to hook mothers-to-be up as teammates, perhaps assigning someone at 20 weeks to someone at 38 weeks, so the “younger” mom-to-be can see the endgame. Explain that no two people are the same, of course, but give people hands-on experience as a sort of disinterested coach/support person, since our culture usually doesn’t provide that otherwise.

My wife isn’t wimpy. If she were a World of Warcraft character, she’d be a “tank,” the one you throw into battle to absorb hits because she has the best armor and toughest constitution. It’s insane that she’s (possibly?) feeling disappointed in herself or any of a number of similar emotions because all of this is so … vague.

I feel like I should say something about the hospital. This is a very good hospital. The staff and doctors have been wonderful so far, within the limits of the system. But the system is dysfunctional.

Upside: we’re almost there. Our boy is about to come into the world and be a person. In a week we probably won’t care about all this. But, damn, it’s a dumb, bumpy road to get there.