It's Complicated

It’s normal for first-time parents to worry about things as d-day approaches, whether it’s health, finances, or those dreaded sleepless nights. Me personally, I worried about SIDS, episiotomies, citizenship, the Euro collapsing, Ruyman collapsing, and those carcinogens that make up “new car” smell. The one thing I didn’t think to worry about was the placenta. This was, unfortunately, a mistake on my part.

For sheer multi-functioned practicality, it’s hard to beat a placenta. It’s a fetal garbage man, security guard, and lunch lady all rolled into one. When it comes to appearance, however, it leaves a lot to be desired. To me, it looks like some of the more arcane ingredients in traditional English cooking. (Steak-and-placenta pie, though extremely nutritious, never really took off as a dinner party staple. It’s hard to overcome that taboo against self-cannibalism.)

My placenta in all its gory.

While nobody doubts how important a placenta is during pregnancy, I didn’t appreciate how vital it is to get rid of it after birth until it didn’t happen. Delivering the placenta is your body’s way of telling your uterus to close up shop. The resulting contractions and shrinkage seal off any open blood vessels left and keep you from bleeding to death in the weeks following. That’s why, when you deliver the placenta, the doctors take a good look at it before tossing it out (or selling it on the black market to the British Culinary Institute). The doctors are checking for bits that are missing.

And that’s what Ruyman saw when he took a good look at my placenta: the fact that there were chunks taken out. He asked the doctor if that was a problem and was told that the pieces would pass later on their own. This proved not to be the case.

Some bleeding after childbirth is normal and expected. It takes a few days for an organ the size of Mt. Kilimanjaro to go back to its original fist-sized dimensions. But three weeks of bleeding, my Cullen-colored complexion, and the lingering stink of roadkill made it clear there really was something rotten in the state of Uterus. So we went to the doctor.

Who sent us to the midwife. Who sent us to the Urgent Care. Who sent us to the Emergency Room. Who sent us back to the Vaginas Only waiting room of the Gynecology wing. I showed the sheaf of referrals to the on-call nurse, who glanced at them quizzically, took my temperature, and sent me to get a blood test. An hour later, Ruyman poked his head in to see how it was going. The nurse confessed that she had no idea what I was doing there and wanted to release me, but Ruyman managed to explain the situation and get me in to see the actual doctor.

After hearing what was going on, the doctor arranged another intimate encounter with the internal ultrasound machine. The screen revealed several dark spots, signs of placental stowaways. The doc tried to remove one of the hangers-on with his fingers. This hurt like a mother (a phrase I may now use with authority), so he booked an anesthesiologist and an operating room for the following day so he could remove them without going deaf. 

By this time, it was about two in the morning so I was sent to spend the remainder of the night back in my old digs in the gynecology recovery ward. All the old gang was there, including Nurse Gestapo from earlier. Luckily, she gave me a wide berth since Ruyman had some strong words with her last time. After two weeks of nighttime feedings and diaper changes, a full night sleep was wonderful, even if it was in a hospital. The procedure itself went off without a hitch and the operating nurses were extremely kind. 

Despite several negative experiences, my final encounter with the hospital was really good. I also had the opportunity to add up the medical costs Anya and I would have collected in the states and concluded that, regardless of everything, it’s better to deal with crappy nurses than to go bankrupt.