Mad PROUD Skillz, Mad DISAPPOINTMENT, Part II

I've been wanting to get a Graduate Diploma of Teaching for the past few years, but obviously, living out in no-man's land, it hasn't exactly been possible. It's just a one-year degree though, and not only would I be able to legally teach, but I'd also be able to pursue what I really want to do, which is be a literacy specialist. I want to help children to learn how to read, and then hopefully, to love it as passionately as I do.

Distance learning has really increased in New Zealand lately, so I started calling all the universities with Education departments to see if I could do this one-year degree from home. I was going to be a stay at home Mom anyway, it seemed perfect.

One big snag -- all of these universities required a one-time, on-campus stay of 1-2 weeks in the first week of February. Then I would be home free to, well, be at home for the rest of the year. Sounds fine, except that Jiffy Pop was due about February 3rd. All the universities said the same thing, "Sorry, you'll just have to wait another year."

Argh!

A few weeks after the Maori language class had ended (and me STILL pregnant), a woman from a Maori university came to Beau's school to talk to us. Many of the people teaching at his school are not truly officially certified and the university had a three-year distance learning program for them to get all the credentials they needed. It would work out well for those in our community who live far from active civilization. The school's staff was told over and over that this university was very keen to work around all our needs. So, along with some staff members and several locals also interested, I came to the meeting myself, hoping that perhaps this could finally be my way to get that damn diploma. Also, it was the cultural part of this Maori university I was really hoping to work in my favor. I'll explain, but first, let me get to the start of the meeting.

Three Maori women walked into the room, smiling and acknowledging several of the teachers and locals whom they obviously knew. We then all settled around a large conference table. The three university women, interested people (about 12 of them, all Maori), and me, white-ass cracker girl.

As in Maori tradition, the first university representative stood up and began speaking in Maori, greeting everyone. Then she did her pepeha (short personal genealogy) for the group. Everyone warmly greeted her, and it then moved on to the next two women who did the same.

Then the first teacher stood up to do her intro. It was coming MY way around the table, not the other way around! She too recited her pepeha and greeted the group, and so rose the next person. There was only one more person between her and I. They didn't go very quickly, but it wouldn't be long before it was my turn.

I gulped and looked around the table at the people there. Should I do my own pepeha? I mean, I'm the American sitting at a table of Maori New Zealanders. Would it be appropriate, presumptuous, weird? Would I be like some sort of novelty? A trained dog? My heart began pounding hard.

But wait a minute, this is what I was taught in language class. This was what I was supposed to do, right? Hmmmm. Okay, I was going to do it!

My heart was really banging in my chest now.

Slowly, I stood up and I immediately had to make myself manually breathe. I steadied myself, then plunged in with full force. This is my name! This is my mountain! This is my lake! This is my ancestor! This is my people!

There was a sudden silence, and the mouths of the three university women dropped open. Their eyes bulged out. They looked at each other in amazement.

I felt a sudden burning flush and knew my neck and face were becoming beet red. I'm as pale as they come, and when I get very embarrassed, the change in skin color is rather dramatic. But I kept going...I was almost done! I finished my pepeha and self-introduction, then switched to English where I said I was hoping to do the graduate diploma. Then, now shaking slightly and with my skin on fire, I smiled self-consciously and sat down.

The table erupted in a loud, collective whooop. The three women let out several exclamations voicing their shock, delight and admiration. I felt so proud and thrilled, but also completely horrified at what I knew my skin looked like at that moment. I have to say though, I hadn't felt that proud and that good in a long time. There aren't a lot of moments like that in one's adulthood.

The crowd began to settle, and the woman next to me, Ella, a Maori woman in her late 50's who often substituted at the school, leaned over and whispered in my ear, "Oh great, thanks a fucking lot, J!"

She then stood up and did her own introduction. In English.

Anyway...

I've lived in a lot of places and haven't seen the amount of love and acceptance given to the presence and care for children as I have in Maori culture. Each time I take Jiffy Pop to Beau's school for a visit, my heart is just warmed at the amount of love she receives. Everyone is an aunty, uncle or nanny. Everyone wants to care for her. She is entirely accepted and welcomed in the workplace. The first time I brought Jiffy Pop to the school, one woman ("Helen") held out her arms, said, "Come to Nanny Helen," and after cradling the baby in her arms, promptly walked off to a staff meeting where she stayed with her for the next two hours. Imagine trying to bring a baby into YOUR next staff meeting.

Well, this university provides for women with babies like me! Though I was due to give birth to Jiffy Pop shortly after the university program began, they have it set up so I could stay in my own room at the university, breastfeed and care for Jiffy Pop, and do my several days of required on-campus time before going back home. I could even bring her to class! This is the Maori way. I couldn't believe my luck. I'd be able to get my degree, WHILE here in the bush, do the majority of it online and be totally supported on campus! Wow...beyond thrilled.

Not so fast, J. For reasons that are complicated and still a bit hazy to me, the particular degree *I* wanted to do was not available to me. The rest of the room was interested in doing a three-year teaching degree (basically, a B.A. in Education), but mine was a post-grad one.

I was devastated. I sat there for a minute, sort of soaking in my disappointment. Then, realizing the meeting was going to continue for some time for the REST of the room, I self-consciously whispered my goodbyes and left.

Fuck.

Mad PROUD Skillz, Mad DISAPPOINTMENT, Part I

Starting about two months before I got pregnant, every Wednesday night, Beau and I would attend a three-hour Beginning Maori language class at the local RSA (Returned Service Members Association -- Veterans). It started out interesting -- a class of about 40 people, all from the local community, of all ages (though predominantly women). It was taught by a grandmotherly woman who loved to joke and would frequently throw her head back and let out huge guffaws, exposing her many missing teeth. It was weird, but it was like all those missing teeth looked CUTE in some way. I thought she was a total delight. We'll call her "Kata."

Sadly, as time went on, the class dwindled dramatically, particularly the younger people who evaporated with each class. By the end, we had a steady number of about seven or eight people (including Beau and I). There was an advanced class that ended up with about half that. Beau would grumble every now and then that THAT was why his students were the way they were, they were mimicking the same behavior as their parents -- begin something with gusto, and then just shrug, say you can't be bothered, and quit. A LOT of activities at his school end up that way.

But admittedly, it was a tough class to stick to. It was NINE months long, and sometimes those three hours in the evening were tough to get through, especially for those who worked during the day. Also, the more pregnant I got, the more draining the class could be. But we stuck with it. We really wanted to learn the local language, even if we didn't need to, and besides, with NZ being obsessive about certificates and qualifications, it would be great to have an official Maori Language certificate at the end of it all.

It was important to Kata that there was a strong emphasis on the local culture as well as the language. She frequently went off into tangents and I think Beau and I counted four times that she went into the story of the returned Maori soldiers from Italy in WWII. Basically, the men (who survived), returned heroes and spent the next 20 years boozing their nights away. Since the community was so proud of them and were so happy to have them home, they were given total free reign to let loose when they got home. It's just that no one ever said, "Hey, that's about enough now."

But we did learn more about the people and traditions, aspects of all sorts of local land features, and especially, the beautiful maraes -- small compounds which features several buildings including the main meeting house, cooking and eating house, and the sleeping house. And we did lots of singing. LOTS and LOTS of singing.

Unfortunately for Beau and I, Kata didn't focus too much on the actual LEARNING of the language, and the many books and workbooks we had were practically skimmed through. We still adored her and enjoyed being in the class. One feature was the near hour-long "tea" in the center of class time where each night we had a giant potluck, sat around and shot the shit. It was very enjoyable, and as the months went by, the time of this break seemed to increase.

But there was one thing we learned, and learned well: our Whakapapa. (pronounced: fah-kah-pa-pa). It's basically an oral version of your genealogy. Maori recite it back to their original canoe. In Maori history, seven canoes left "Hawai" or "Hawaiki" (no, not Hawaii), a Polynesian island they all came from, though no one quite knows exactly which particular island it is today. And similar to the American focus on the Nina, Pinta and Santa Maria, Maori know not only the NAME of each one of the seven canoes (Aotea, Arawa, Kurahaupo, Mataatua, Tainui, Taakitimu and Tokomaru), but also which one(s) they descend from.

There's two ways to do it, the long version where you actually say something like "John slept with Beth and they made Tom" until you get to yourself or the cool short version, the "pepeha." The pepeha involves reciting your connection to your family, your people, and the land you come from. You recite each one like this: "Arawa is my canoe, Tinangahua is my river," etc. Oh, and in Maori, of course. The typical list includes most or all of the following:

- your canoe (or "waka")
- your mountain
- your river (or lake)
- your marae
- the name of the land you were born on
- your "iwi" (larger tribe)
- your "hapu" (local, family clan)
- your main ancestor
- your "whanau" (family name)
- your mom and your dad's name


Now, this is easy for Maori, especially rural ones, who still live amidst all these things. For Beau and I, this suddenly became a unique challenge, especially for me who was born in the Midwest, but after age five was raised in the desert. Then I returned to the Midwest for my university degrees. I was much more familiar with my desert topography, but apparently, it was the Midwest landscape I was supposed to be acknowledging.

Obviously, I don't have a canoe or a marae, and what exactly is my ancestor, tribe or clan? So, after some discussion in the class and the example in our workbook that one Scottish person used, I decided to go with my last name (Norwegian) for my family, went back to the first ancestor who immigrated to America for my ancestor, Vikings as my tribe, and Norwegians as my clan, and used the local land in the Midwest for my mountain, river and the land I was born on. Yeah, it's not an exact science, true. It felt both a little silly and also kind of cool. And though Beau and I brought smiles every time we did our strange pepeha, it was still unconditionally accepted. People don't fuck around when it comes to bloodlines here.

To this day, when Maori get together, even in very official and/or government meetings or in business dealings, they spend a great deal of time introducing themselves, and this almost always includes reciting their pepeha to the group. It's a way of identifying who you are and connecting to others around you who may be closely or distantly related. It's really not so different than our own introductions when groups first get together for a meeting, it's just that instead of the focus being on your job, position, or maybe your university, it's on your family and land.

And in the future it would be very useful and important to me in several situations. I'll share one of them in my next post. :)

Big City, Lustful Heart

I do promise that my blog from now on will NOT be solely about being an obsessive mommy and the wonders of my child. But frankly, the last four months of Jiffy Pop's life have been solely my focus. As she gets older and develops more, I will also be spreading my own wings. Sadly, though living here out on the coast is just as breathtakingly beautiful as the day we arrived, it's now starting to suffocate me a bit. The upside is that it has allowed me to be a full-time mother to a preemie baby, something that would have been impossible in the States. The downside is that I haven't done more than temp or long-term relief work for the past few years and any semblance of a career is slowly becoming an impossibility. Oh, I knew what I was doing when we made Jiffy Pop. And I know living out here on the coast holds few opportunities for anyone, but still, it is starting to get me down.

Beau had some teacher training in Mt Maunganui, a good-sized city attached to Tauranga, which is the fastest-growing city in the country. We love these cities (we kind of see them as one, though I'm sure residents would get pissy about that), and so Jiffy Pop and I tagged along for the day.

It's always a treat to go to Auckland or Tauranga for the day to shop and see movies and eat at restaurants, etc. It's something I feel I truly need once in awhile. I am still a city girl at heart and though I have enjoyed the country, truly, it's not for me. Though surprisingly, when I picture my ideal situation for the future, Beau and I would live on a "lifestyle block" which is basically a modest piece of rural land on the outskirts of a big city where you can do a tiny bit of farming or animal raising, but mostly, it's just bigger and prettier to live in. (This kind of reminds me of what you guys did, Loafkeeper). Since New Zealand is still mostly rural, there are many of these blocks around and the only downside is your commute. But you'd still be attached to the city in some way.

So, on this recent trip to Mt Maunganui where Beau went off to enrich himself professionally, Jiffy Pop and I went off to...the mall! Though it was still morning, I promptly got myself some Indian food, Jiffy Pop got a big-ass bottle, and we proceeded to KILL that place.

It's amazing how much time you can kill in a mall (especially one with a bookstore that has lots of clearance items), and I felt so frickin happy. I missed the convenience, the accessibility, the choices of a city. And luckily, I have a pretty good baby who was a good girl the whole time I pushed her around in her "pram," which believe me, I was super thankful for after passing about 17,000 screaming babies while there (btw, is "bring your baby to the mall" a total THING? There were TONS of them!).

Sidnote: Super big shout-out to this Bayfair Mall! I took Jiffy Pop to the bathroom and saw something called a "Caretakers Room." Pushing a button, a long glass door slid slowly open to reveal an incredible (massive) room: three large changing tables with mats and a sink to wash your hands; a microwave for heating up food and bottles; three leather couches tucked into individual cubbies with a curtain you could pull across so you could breastfeed in private; a large play area filled with toys and sporting a glass enclosure so your little monster can't take off on you; high chairs; and a bathroom with various-sized potties for all ages. Oh, and soft lighting, too. Wow!

Anyway, we then picked up Beau, had some lunch, did a bit more shopping (hooray for the German sausage shop!), and headed home.

Since then (last week), I've felt a bit different. Going to Auckland or Tauranga is like that old adage about sex: once you do it, you wanna do it again right away. So, I've told myself that's just it, I just want to go back again, but I don't know. Though I have always missed living in the city, it's always been nice being here "in the bush," but now...it just seems a whole lot less tolerable. I know I know that this is the perfect time to live here since it has given me the right to take care of my daughter full-time. I really can't imagine what it must be like to return to work 6 weeks later like in the U.S. Awful.

But I've been here in the bush for 2 1/2 years now, and it's just not the place for me. It's so beautiful and the people are really warm and friendly, but the isolation is getting to me. And due to the fact that schools in the big cities won't even interview Beau for teaching positions (we still haven't figured this out, think it might be because he's American and not Kiwi, though people keep telling us, "It's who you know!"), I am terrified that we may be stuck here.

The only way out will be for me to get some great job that makes as much as Beau makes, which will be tough since he makes a pretty decent salary. And since I've been out of the job market for a few years now, who is going to want to hire me for a position like that?

But even if I did get a good job, our monthly costs would easily double once we leave the bush where rent is cheap and there isn't much to spend your cash on. And also, would Beau be happy just being a substitute in a big city, hoping to get a permanent position somehow? Probably not. He's already feeling a bit burnt out as it is and being a sub wouldn't help that much. But after Jiffy Pop gets a bit older, I need to work. I need to work and I need to contribute to my family's expenses. This is important to me.

Whine whine whine. I'm really not unhappy as I sound. My marriage is going well right now, Jiffy Pop gives me a great amount of joy, and though we have lots of bills and little cash, we're certainly not starving. There's just a current flowing in the back of my mind which is unsettling me. A restlessness that, really, is a fear of the future. I'm usually so optimistic about the future, but I need to know we will end up in a decent-sized city somewhere where Beau can work, I can work, Jiffy Pop can go to a good school, and we can possibly get a house.

I never knew such big, open beautiful spaces could make me feel so closed in. I'm going to make the most of this year, and then hope like hell next year we will settle (for good) in a place that will provide opportunities for us all.

One Month, Two Hospitals

NOTE: I'm changing my baby's real name to "Jiffy Pop" on here. Silly? Sure. But I want to give her some anonymity and some for myself as well. There are still some people I don't want locating this blog, and her name makes it a lot more possible. (And it's one of my favorite nicknames for her).

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No great surprise that I've been AWOL from the blog for awhile. The birth of Jiffy Pop was a bit different than expected. I'll try to sum up the post-birth drama.

After a few days of recovery from the c-section, I was put up in a dorm at the hospital and spent my days walking back and forth from my hot little room (without a fan or private bathroom - ugh), to the NICU (infant intensive care) unit. Between that 20 minute roundtrip walk several times a day to the start of breastfeeding and INTENSIVE breast pumping (as militarily dictated by the hospital staff), I was stunned to see what baby weight I had fall off. I've never been able to lose weight easily, so I guess that was a bonus to the regime.

Jiffy Pop was pretty amazing, and besides being small (a little over 4lbs), she began to grow and develop with few issues. There was some jaundice, and one of her eyes got some birth goop in it (yuck) and was a bit nasty. I was shocked when they used my breast milk, squirted into her eye(!!) to treat it. I heard the term "liquid gold" over and over in reference to that early breast milk with all the colostrum in it. But it's true though, a few days later her eye was fine.

I spent the next two weeks at the hospital, and was deeply impressed with the care Jiffy Pop got. I was also saddened by the babies around her, who hosted a myriad of problems even though we were in that "almost ready to go home" room. The boy two cots down had brain bleeding and the one next to us couldn't breathe well. I spent my days alternating feeding her through the tube in her stomach to attempting to breastfeed. I tried to breastfeed as much as possible, since once she could breastfeed for every meal, we could go home. But it tired her out, so the nurses would only let me do it 2-3 times a day.

When Beau was in town, we had the opportunity to enjoy the city of Hamilton in the 1-3 hour breaks from the hospital I got. I was nervous and fidgety during that time though and was always pushing him to hurry back! Those nurses kept a STRICT clock on things and if you were one minute late, they took care of Jiffy Pop themselves and I'd end up standing there feeling guilty and stupid.

I was bummed around Christmas because there was the chance I'd be alone and still stuck in the hospital, but at the last minute they told me I would be transferred to our "home" hospital -- the closest hospital to our home is about 1 1/2 hours away. This was great news, for many reasons. 1) It meant Jiffy Pop had advanced enough to be transferred, since our home hospital would only take her if she was at a certain age and development; 2) Beau wouldn't have to keep up that 4 1/2 hour drive each way to see us for a day or so; and 3) it just felt better. Closer to home, physically and developmentally.

So, Jiffy Pop and I spent the next two weeks in our home hospital. I did this "mothercraft" thing where I basically live at the hospital in my own room and Jiffy Pop is there with me 24/7. The room is connected to the NICU by a door which I initially had open out of outright fear but soon kept closed at all times. There were a lot of restless nights where every fidget and grunt (and preemies are KNOWN for their extensive and constant grunting) had my eyes flying open, sitting bolt upright, checking if she could breathe. To this day, I am illogically frightened of something happening to her, particularly with her breathing. I didn't sleep much, nor did I do much but feed her, change her, and put her back to sleep, but it was steps closer to home.

What IS that? What is it in us that is terrified that our babies will stop breathing or get suffocated? Is it some evolutionary leftover instinct when babies' death rates were so high? Or is it still current with the fear of SIDS? I actually know a woman whose four month old boy died of SIDS and this woman is a PhD who works with infants! So, it can happen to anyone and it truthfully freaks me out, though little by little I grow more confident.

Anyway, after those additional two weeks went by, four weeks total spent at hospital (since they don't use "the" before hospital here), Jiffy Pop was finally eating every meal with me, her dreadful stomach tube was removed, and we finally went home.

Wonderful, frightening, proud...and so much relief.

Here we go!

The Birth - Wait, NOW?

I'm going to have to jump forward in time, since time is passing by too fast and I don't want to forget things...

The next day Putiputi, Beau and I were given a tour of the Newborn Intensive Care Unit (NICU). It's something I really wanted to do, but I was surprised by the effect it had on me. It was deeply sad and sobering. Here I'd been lying in my bed a few floors up, gnashing my teeth at the thought of cooling my heels for two more weeks, and now I was in this ward with all these babies hooked up to tubes and needles and oxygen with blue lights and beeping machines. It was awful and I started crying right there. What a dick I am. I'll hold her in for two more weeks myself, even if I have to use duct tape.

Well, so much for that. The next morning I awoke at 6am, drenched. And not drenched in sweat. It was like my water had broken for a second time, which was weird...since it was...uhhh already broken and had been (sorry for the TMI) leaking non-stop for the past few days. So, there I was, now sitting in my own little mess. I was confused.

Then I felt a cramp...better known as a contraction, the weak kind. Hrm. I went to the bathroom and saw a small bit of blood. Uh oh.

*DING*

I rang for the nurse and informed her of the now increasing (though still weak) contractions and my personal jacuzzi. She was all laid-back, told me it was no big deal, changed some sheets, and had me sit back down. She said she'd call the doctor though, just in case.

Days later I learned that this same cool and collected nurse had been racing up and down the corridor in a mild freak-out after my ring. She had just put on that poker face for me.

Then a young Indian woman walked in, announced that she was the doctor and asked to check me. A few very intimate moments later she said, "Two centimeters. Right. And your baby is breech and eight weeks early. I'm going to take you down to the delivery suite and we're going to have a c-section right now."

RIGHT NOW?

And in a blur of minutes, Beau was called to get his ass over to the hospital pronto (he was in the hospital dorm room), and I was being wheeled to "theatre" (surgery). By now, the contractions had gone from bad period cramps to, well, CONTRACTIONS. And they were coming REAL close together. But the weird thing was...they were also alright. Okay, I don't mean like, that they tickled or that they weren't a big deal, cause they fucking sucked, but I guess I was expecting something excruciating. But do note: I'd only been going through them for about an hour. Looking back, I know if I was one of these women who had to endure those things for 8, 10, 12+++ hours, I might just have to stab someone.

This was when things got comical. Prepping me for surgery (and Beau all dressed up too), and having me sit up on the gurney, a myriad of staff began materializing before my eyes, one by one, introducing themselves and what their role would be. The contractions were now full-on and VERY close, and all my concentration was on trying to breathe through them instead of screaming or holding my breath. Then people starting coming up to me (notably, the anesthesiologist), with consent and release forms. And they were explaining them to me, asking me questions, and handing me a pen to sign with DURING THE CONTRACTIONS. At the peak of the contractions, all I heard anyway was the echo of Charlie Brown's teacher...WAU WAU..WA WAU WA....

Are you fucking kidding me? I was so cross-eyed and exhausted and in pain, I would have signed a consent form to join Al-Qaeda at that moment. I could hardly hold the pen and signing something someone is holding up in the air isn't exactly easy anyway.

A couple of times someone would pause and say, "Oh, I guess we'll wait for this contraction to end before we continue."

Yeah, thanks.

I remember being quite frightened because I knew the anesthesiologist was about to prick me in the back and the contractions were coming so close together that my whole body would shake, and that somehow he'd prick the wrong part of my spine and that'd be it. Shit, I'd already signed the consent form, he could leave me a drooling stupid mess and I couldn't do a thing about it.

I felt several pricks and then a longer one and he was done. Then my toes started to tingle, and that was a good thing. It wasn't long before the surgery then began. I was awake, but there was a sheet up. I couldn't see much, but I really didn't want to. I thought puking at the birth of my daughter might be in bad form.

Almost immediately, I heard the doctor say, "It's a girl," which I already knew, but was still kind of cool. Beau, who all along had steadfastly stated he was not going to be anywhere but right at my head, eyes averted, at the birth, (back when we assumed it was going to be a natural one), now couldn't help himself and was stealing glances at the surgery. Jiffy Pop's butt came out first, and then began a bunch of tugs and twists as they tried to pry her loose from my body.

I know, ew.

Beau said that it was "actually pretty cool" after all. I looked down at just the right moment to see her being lifted up and away from my body. At that second, I saw one giant blue eye peering straight at me.

And then she was gone.

The doctors then went on with closing me up, and I remember my thought at the time was, "How can she hold a needle and thread to sew me up with such massively bloody hands?" She seemed to be covered in blood. I know, again, ew.

I then heard a very short cry from somewhere behind me, and then I began to cry.

Several minutes more, and then a woman approached me with Jiffy Pop wrapped all up and held her right up to my face, so close that I couldn't really see her, though I tried. The lady said, "Give her a kiss before we take her away," and I did. Then she was gone again.

It would take the doctors twice as long to stitch me up as it did to pull her out. I had started this whole business at 6am that morning, and she emerged at 7:55am. I guess I don't get to ever brag about the great pain of childbirth if my contractions lasted less than 2 hours.

During that whole time, I had two men as bookends on either side of my head. One was a Kiwi, and one a Scot. I'm not sure what their true roles were there in surgery, though one claimed he was basically just there to keep everything happy and running smoothly. So, I guess he was either a boss, or a circus clown. They were both really funny though, and as the woman surgeon continued to stitch me up, they were chatting amiably with me, mostly about movies, comedies in particular. (At this time, Beau was gone, following the baby to Intensive Care).

The three of us were laughing, quoting and imitating certain movies and characters. I asked the Scottish man what he thought of the comedian Mike Meyer's impersonation of a Scot, like in all the Austin Powers movies, or my favorite, in "So I Married an Axe Murderer." He said the Scots LOVE it and think it's awesome, especially since it's pretty authentic since Mike Meyer's mom is Scottish.

I was having so much fun talking to these guys, I was almost sad when it was over. They both told me the same -- what a great time they'd had. One said, "Yeah, most mothers just want to talk about their baby and NOTHING else."

Oops. --guilt-- I hadn't really asked ANYTHING about my baby. I kind of assumed she was being taken care of 'til I could see her. Erm, bad Mom!

After she was born, Jiffy Pop had a little trouble breathing, but in a very short time she started breathing on her own. That same day, she was moved from the critical room in NICU to the 7th room in NICU. the last one babies end up in before going home. Yay! Beau said, "She moved in with all the big kids."

It was awful to see so many wires coming out of my tiny baby -- for this or for that, or that stupid blue light for jaundice, but they took (take) VERY good care of her 24/7, so it's hard to complain. She weighed in at 4lbs, which they said was a good size for how early she was.

And she's been kicking ass and taking names ever since. :)

Same-Day Delivery and People Get Annoying

This morning the lady carrying twins woke up with a strained face. She was quickly attended to by the nurses, rushed off, and just a couple hours later had given birth to her twins. WOAH! She had already been at the hospital for the past two weeks and was expecting another seven weeks *gasp* of languishing in the "lay and wait" state we were all in. But nature is nature, and me and Putiputi were shocked to see such a rapid turn of events and stared stupidly as the nurses packed up the woman's things and slowly pulled her kids' drawings from the wall.

"You're next, you know," Putiputi said. "It's by bed, and the girl in my bed went before her," she said, nodding toward the Twins' mother's vacant bed.

I found this comment strangely reassuring. Supposedly, Jiffy Pop was out of danger (well, in about 24 hours after the steroids and antibiotics had done their thing). This was the best preemie place in the country, she could come out now, right? Hmm, no, the longer inside, the better. Still, I was envious of the Twins' mother at that moment.

Joy of joys, Beau showed up, earlier than I thought he would, and holy hell did his face look good to me. I got up on my knees and reached out to him for a big hug. He was rolling in a small suitcase packed thick with clothes, toiletries, and a laptop. Hooray! He had to leave shortly thereafter though to find the hotel and get me some food (I was starving in this fucking place).

The Twins' mother did make an appearance a few hours later. Her whanau (family) had come en masse, crowding her room and performing Maori prayers. It was pretty touching. She stopped by our room on her way out, her arm slung casually around one of her daughter's shoulders. She reported that the twins were fine, breathing, but that they'd be in intensive care for about 10 weeks 'til they developed more. She looked calm, happy and tired and just wanted to get home. We bid her well and she was gone.

And then there were two.

But not for long. Shortly thereafter a young Indian woman was rolled in. She was quiet and kept to herself, which was fine. It would be several hours yet before she would begin to annoy me. Someone else took that position first.

A nurse walked in and said that since we had the only TV, that another woman on the floor asked if she could come in and watch it with us. Sure, no problem. About an hour later, a tiny woman clutching a huge belly walked in, perhaps in her late teens or early twenties. Emma was very talkative right from the start, which for some reason, I've always found annoying when you first meet someone. I kind of feel like you should ease into new acquaintances, have some gentle small talk, find common ground, etc. (I always wait a good period of time before I unleash my wicked sense of humor on new work colleagues)..

But Emma's brash communication skills were off and running. She was at 35 weeks but had a congenital heart defect which made her delivery dangerous. She stated how much she wanted to see Shortland Street, a half-hour Kiwi show, and the only "soap opera" I watch, so I was cool with that. Well, she spent the entire half hour blah blah blahing, continually walking and stopping in front of me (totally blocking my view and the sound of the TV), and then asked to use my cellphone to call our mutual phone carrier. I paused at this, since I have a shitty little, pay-as-you go phone which ferociously sucks minutes away, but I was hoping that her call was toll-free. Still, as she paced back and forth, berating the customer service person, I bit my lip anxiously ticking away the minutes in my head.

Apparently she had some sort of $12.50/month plan, but since she had only paid $10 on it, she was not able to actually use the phone service. This sent her into a rage at the telephone company, telling them she couldn't afford more than $10/month (then why do you have a fucking cellphone, woman!?). And since it's impossible to just "top up" $2.50 (you can do it in increments of $10 at any gas station or convenience store), she was sent further into a rage. "Nice service!" she snapped at him before hanging up and handing me back my phone, thanking me and stomping out. She would return shortly afterwards with another lady in tow to chat some more.

Blessedly, she eventually left, we were served our crap-ass, small-portioned dinner, which I could barely eat anyway since it was chock-a-block with onions and the menu I'd given them stating "NO ONIONS" in obnoxious print wouldn't go into effect until the next day. I couldn't take it anymore, I was so damn hungry, so I went upstairs to the cafeteria and bought some more food, including some interesting-looking Israeli couscous (but sadly, bland) and began devouring it back in my bed. Minutes later, Beau appeared, bearing two large plastic containers of Indian takeaway. OH MY GOD! I LOVE HIM! Screw this couscous, HOORAY!

I noshed and noshed until my body was screaming for me to stop, though my head kept saying, More more! Ahhhh wonderful food. Even Beau, who sadly I've never been able to convince of the joys of Indian food said, "This is the best I've ever had." There's still hope for him.

As we were sitting there chatting quietly, I heard a noise. My first thought was there was a little girl in the hallway whining or crying. Beau's brow furrowed and he looked around. We both then realized the fast-paced, high-pitched stream was coming from behind the curtained off bed where the Indian woman lay, apparently talking on her cellphone. Beau looked utterly confused. Was she crying, upset, or was that her actual talking voice? I shrugged. The voice was stunning - it kind of reminded me of a typical sit-com voice that they give to their bimbo characters when they're upset, kind of like Chrissie on Three's Company having a weepy meltdown. It was pretty over-the-top. The woman had to be about 30, but sounded 5 years old. I'm not kidding.

Eventually, Beau had to leave to go to the hotel for the night and I very happily laid down to sleep. I hadn't really slept much the first night, and happily, got comfortable and tired quickly this night. I slept for a few hours...until...

Chaos. The Indian woman's voice broke me from a sleep as she was in utter panic mode. Her water broke. Instead of pushing the "Call-Nurse" button on her bed, she had been jamming repeatedly the "Cancel-Call" button, so naturally, getting no response from the staff.

Oh, and this is another weird thing - at night the whole place is dark, and the nurses walk around the hallways with flashlights, bringing them to your bed to do their duties in its thin beam. Weird, but I guess an effort to not be disturbing to others. The first night I thought there was a blackout or something. So, staring ahead at the curtained-off Indian woman, I saw the beam of the flashlight bounce around as the nurse attempted to soothe the bleeting woman.

This drama continued on for the next two hours, with the woman banging in and out of the bathroom, the light shining in my face. Once I learned it wasn't an emergency, but more of a panic attack, I tried to get back to sleep, but now my mind was racing and the constant noise from the other bed wasn't making slumber any easier. I tossed and turned and finally just gave up, got up, and asked the nurse if there was a common room I could go to to write on my computer (didn't want its bright light to disturb Putiputi's sleep).

The nurse graciously led me to where I sit now, a vacant patient room where I've been typing away for about the last hour and a half, recalling all this detail. She was even nice enough to bring me my medication and do all my vitals here. I'm finally starting to feel a little tired and I've written pages and pages of this in Wordpad, so I guess it's time to wrap it up for now. I'm sure there'll be more to tell in this coming day....which has already started!

One Day, Three Hospitals

"You're going up north to the Waikato Hospital. All preemies cases go there -- and you're not allowed to be here in this hospital until you at least 34 weeks."

Argh! The great blessing of NZ healthcare is that it's basically free. The shitty thing is that it doesn't have quite the infrastructure and services of America, and because of this, I was now waiting for another ambulance to come and get me and take me another 3 hours north to the other hospital. Keep in mind, this will be a 4 1/2 hour drive from our home back in the bush. Not exactly convenient for Beau, especially since it was the last week of the school year. He had to turn around and go back to take care of stuff, like telling his job he wasn't going to finish out the week, finishing up some vital school reports, boarding the dog, cleaning stuff from the house (dirty dishes, laundry I'd need, etc.), and packing me a more realistic bag, including this laptop. We were repeatedly told that there was funding for this -- that because of our great distance to the hospital, there would be a hospital hotel for him to stay in for free and gas vouchers for the long drive.

So, with a nurse and incubator to accompany my ride, we drove off north to Hamilton. I was level with the windows and spent half the time gazing out of them and half the time snoozing. I wasn't really frightened, but certainly anxious. Basically, I had been told at the previous hospital, what I would continue to be told over the next few days:

We're pumping you with steroids for the baby's lungs, anti-labor pills to keep you from going into labor, frequently testing your blood sugar (I had been diagnosed with borderline gestational diabetes a little over a week before), taking out blood, and giving you scans and exams. And lots of antiobiotics, since infection is a serious and scary risk right now. But really, what you need to do is lay in this bed and do nothing for at least the next two weeks. At that point we'll probably ship you back to the previous hospital where they can deal with you.

Oh, and there's no TV in your room or WiFi for your laptop (which I didn't have yet anyway). Or privacy (you'll have 2 other roommates).

ARGH. Okay, I know, the biggest thing here is Jiffy Pop - the baby. And don't think I didn't know this and think of it constantly. I even had them put me on the monitor twice a day instead of once, just for reassurance that she was okay, since her reliably active and constant movements had greatly diminished. I'd pretty much walk through fire if they told me it'd help her come out healthy. But the thought of active, ADD-multi-tasking me somehow sitting in a narrow hospital bed for at LEAST two weeks doing nothing but reading magazines and trying to sleep the time away made my skin just fucking crawl. I knew in the end, obviously, I'd do it, but the thought of it made me inwardly freak out.

My two roommates turned out to be pretty cool. Both Maori women in their 20's with several previous pregnancies between them, they were both calm and friendly. They both had their water break too, but were sadly, about 5 weeks behind me in development. To make matters worse, one of them was carrying twins, who at this point were tiny. We chatted a lot, and I found out both women's previous pregnancies were preemies too, pregnancies that had not been fun or easy. I asked the twins' mother what she was having.

"A boy and a girl. And I'm really relieved, because my husband said if these were girls too, we'd try again since he really wants a boy to carry on his name."

!!!!

"Yeah, my husband was really glad this one's a boy," said the other woman, Putiputi, patting her stomach. "Still, I told him this was the last baby I want to have, that I'm done. (She's also had multiple miscarriages). He just said, 'Let's wait and see...I'd like more.'"

Both women shook their heads. "They don't get it," said the Twins' mother. "They don't understand what we go through."

Around this time I learned from the receptionist that my application for travel assistance for Beau had been rejected by the previous hospital (since they're the ones who sent me here, technically they are the ones who pay). I was shocked, and a bit pissed off. Why?

"Well, they said for one, you're not far enough away. You have to be at least 350km away. Secondly, they said they're broke and have no money for you anyway."

Technically, we're about 298km away from the hospital. It's a FOUR AND A HALF HOUR FUCKING DRIVE! Do I have to be in Australia and row over to qualify for this? Besides, since they were the ones who decided to send me here, they were supposed to be responsible for paying for it. How was I ever supposed to see Beau, for what could be anywhere from 2-7 weeks in this hospital, so far from home. I'd really go crazy. They told me the birth could still happen at any time, and if Beau was back home, could he make it in time? I'd really hate to have to do it alone. I needed him there.

This hung heavy over me until later when my doctor came to see me. A nurse accompanying her heard the story and blew up. "What? Who are they kidding!? They can't reject you! It's a national program, they don't have the power to refuse a national government program. Besides, none of us hospitals have money, we're broke too, you just have to pay it. That's how it works. That's why money is round, it just goes around and around from hospital to hospital."

She then basically instructed the doctor to turn to the application which was there in my file and sign it immediately so we could send it off and tell the other hospital to suck shit. The doctor obediently complied. I wanted to kiss this nurse. Hard.

"It's probably your accent," she sniffed, "They hear an accent and they think you're some foreigner trying to get money off of them. You're permanent residents, you're just as entitled to this reimbursement as any Kiwi is." About a half hour later she brought me a stamped envelope and said, "Tomorrow when you see the social worker about this, make sure she does her thing and then send this off immediately. Tell your husband to turn in his receipts at the end of the week at our desk and get his reimbursement."

Again, LOVING her.

This statement alarmed me a bit, not just because of the implied xenophobia or whatever, but because the hospitals in New Zealand are one of the most diverse enivornments I have ever experienced. Nearly every single nurse or doctor you see is from a different country. In the last 24 hours alone I've been seen by a Scot, a Malaysian, an Egyptian, an Indian woman, an Englishwoman, a South African, and oh yeah, some Kiwis too.

Anyway, back to my room. One bright light was that we had a TV with choppy reception and no *sigh* cable. I talked to my roommates a lot, I read magazines, watched TV, fumed over a Suduko book I'd bought, and I simply waited for Beau to turn up.

The timing of all this sucked for other reasons. One, was our car was up for its "warrant" which is a ridiculously stupid thing you have to do here every six months. You have to get the car checked out, top to bottom, from the engine to the brake lights, and if ONE tiny thing is wrong, they'll fail you, you can't get your new warrant, can't legally drive your car, and have to fix all repairs and have it re-checked again. Since this was our "new" car, we thought it'd sail through the check, but were shocked to find a list of tiddly shit that needed to be fixed - CAR FAIL. This all had to be done within 2 weeks or we'd have to start the process all over. Oh, and the tire we had bought to pass our LAST warrant just six months prior, was deemed unsafe for driving and had to be replaced and the wheels realigned. Tire Bastards. We had planned to have the car fixed on Wednesday and then travel to the next town on Saturday to get it all approved.

But all my shit went down on Tuesday. Nice timing, J.

So, after taking care of things back home, Beau had to make about 5 stops in 3 towns on his way to see me: get the car fixed, re-checked, and other stuff like dropping the dog off at the boarder, and get his fitting appointment for his new glasses, etc. Then come here to Hamilton, a fairly large city we are not at all familiar with, and navigate his way around here...