As a nurse, there are these things called NANDA diagnoses.
They are basically a nursing diagnosis, or a problem that nurses can identify
and implement strategies to help with health, healing and the medical
treatment. In nursing school, they
drill these silly NANDA diagnoses into your head, and you write care plan after
care plan in order to train your brain to think like that: Nursing diagnosis:
intervention, intervention, intervention, intervention. Then, when you get out of school, you
never see the format again. Probably because it is emblazoned onto your brain,
so you mechanically think that way when you encounter a problem.
Recently, I have encountered my first true challenge as a
mother: Sleep deprivation. Now,
you’d think that my son’s food allergy would have thrown me. Nope. I’m a nurse.
I can handle that. Or maybe my
loss of intellectual stimulation (that may come a bit later). But, we are now on our third week of
Benjamin’s sleep strike. At first, I was sure that it was teething. And it
might have been. But now, three weeks later, we are still having trouble and no
teeth to show for it. And, I am going crazy.
Even when I finally get Benjamin down, I can’t sleep for
fear that he’ll be up any second.
My brain won’t let me relax and get the sleep my body desperately needs. I have succeeded in reorganizing half
my apartment, moving my furniture around, even finding a new piece of furniture
in my sleepless hours. But, after a while, I start to melt down.
I should be able to ask for help. My husband continually
tries to encourage me to ask for help. But, I am stubbornly prideful, and I
truly don’t want to inconvenience anyone. I had the baby, and I should be able
to take care of him. I have to learn how. Even if it kills me.
I have tried a lot of things. Tylenol for the teething, four infant sleep books, consulting
with my husband, my mom, my friends, my doctor. I thought it could be an ear infection for a bit. Yesterday
I found out that my child is completely healthy (thank heaven), and that I am
crazy. Admittedly, I had mixed
feelings when I left the pediatrician’s office. I felt relieved that my nursing and mommy senses were right,
and that I can spot a real ear infection.
But, I felt utterly defeated. I had expended every option, and even my
doctor, whom I have know professionally for years and trust completely,
suggested that it might be time to let my baby cry it out. I have resisted this up until now, not
wanting my baby to have to cry.
I’m afraid he will feel alone, he will think I don’t love him, that he
won’t trust me.
My doctor also suggested that we start rice cereal, just to
see if it might help him sleep through the night. So, I gave him some rice
cereal. It was pretty entertaining- he had now idea what to do with it! It was
really cute. Then I gave him a
bath. Then, we swaddled him, we read stories, sang a song, said prayers and put
him to sleep about 7pm. My husband made me put earplugs in, put on white noise
for me, and made me go to sleep.
He woke up at 10:30, 1:30, 4:30, 5:00, 5:30. We were able to get him calm the first few times (I fed him
at 1:30), but after the 4:30, we decided it was time to cry it out. The first
time we lasted 15 minutes, the second 25 minutes, and I was also in tears. I couldn’t take it any more, I went in
and fed him, and we got up to play.
So, in the madness that is sleep deprivation, I have pulled
out of my brain a NANDA nursing diagnosis.
Self care deficit related to sleep deprivation from routine
motherhood. Intervention 1: shower, intervention 2: sleep, intervention 3:
sleep, intervention 4: chocolate, intervention 5: sleep… you get the picture.
Once, a long time ago, a doctor told me that being a mother
was way harder than being a doctor.
As a doctor, there are scientific, clear cut solutions to problems. You
find the problem, you fix the problem.
If there are uncertainties, you consult with other doctors, you read
literature, and you proceed with treatment. And I liked that idea. I told lots of people about my
wisdom- hah. Then I began to experience it.
As a mother, you live with the problem. You try what you
know, seek new ideas, try them, and you continue day in, day out. Then you try other things. It never
ends. You can’t go home, sleep on
it, and come back with new, fresh innovative ideas. You have a child who will never be cured, never be perfect
or anything less than your responsibility. And it’s exhausting.
Not just physically.
Emotionally, you want to the best for your child. Because they are not
just a job, they are your everything.
You lose sleep, not because they are screaming, but because you care
with everything that you are. You
want to fix it, you want to take away all the pain, all the hurt, all the
hardship. You want your child’s life to be everything that yours wasn’t, and a
million times better than you know how to make it.
And the pay isn’t like a doctor’s. You get paid in smiles, kisses, milestones, achievements, little
hands in yours, funny imaginative games, sweet misspelled cards, shining faces
looking into yours, hand drawn pictures, a tiny voice saying your name, and
love. And joy, unspeakable joy. But, its way harder than being a doctor. It is
the hardest job that anyone ever had, ever.
