Nightmare
My return to work approaches.
I've been watching the day get closer and closer with wobbly knees and moths in my stomach. (not butterflies, because those are harbingers of good things to come, and this will suck)
Last night, Munchkin had kind of a rough night, for us, considering that generally, he's been nothing but a little pleasure. And every time I got up to help him, I kept obsessively reminding myself that in 2 days I'm going back to work. Amazingly, instead of thinking, Poor me, I kept repeating, My poor baby, my poor baby...
After one of the times I got up, I had trouble falling back asleep. I tossed and turned and kicked the husband to punish him for his blissful snoring. When I finally passed out, I had the following dream.
I'm at work. I have a presentation to do, but I didn't prepare it. In fact, I don't even have a topic. I am choosing one: Maybe, I can present the case of the 43 year old who demanded a colonoscopy without indication, and we did it, and found a tumor. He also had ulcers. They weren't the source of his bleed, though. Then I think, I could make bleeding ulcers a teaching point, but I realize that I don't know the numbers, because I've been home and haven't looked at the material. I have a vague idea what they are, but obviously, that's not good enough for a presentation.
Someone else is speaking, and I'm frantically trying to finish my power point, but for some reason, instead of doing the power point, I'm surfing the internet, in spite of my dream self ordering my dream self to get to work. My friend is there, the one whose baby just turned 1, and her shiny power point is all finished, complete with the hospital's logo - and I was hoping that I wouldn't be the only one who didn't do her homework.
Then I realize that the "teacher" is a friend of my mom's, whose daughter in law also just had a baby, and has been on paid leave for a year and a half (real life true story), and I breathe a sigh of relief, because being a friend, surely, she'll give me an extension.
But in my haste and nervousness, I knock over a jar with some unpronounceable chemical name, and it spills everywhere.
The baby is there. I maybe nursed him in front of the whole class. Then he's crying and crying. There is a team of people around him, and I realize that we are rounding on the baby. We worry that maybe, the chemical that I spilled was poisonous, and now he's sick. What should we do about his crying? We apply an NG tube and liters and liters of bilious material mixed with water come up.
"Well," I say, "So we DO have reflux!" as if we've been wondering about it for days.
"OR...." says the attending, pimping me, exercising the Socratic teaching method, ie, expecting me to come up with the right answer.
Distal obstruction, distal obstruction! An invisible voice screams out in my head, and I picture an endoscopy of a person with a distal obstruction.
"Or, distal obstruction!" I shout out.
"Exactly," says the attending.
Relief ensues. Pimping session over.
But now, the baby is obstructed and I have to find him a doctor. Suddenly, it's the middle of the night. I am, once again, frantic, googling the name of Munchkin's doctor, but I can't get it right. I keep typing in the wrong first name, then I can't spell his last name, then I can't find the right link.
I finally get a hold of him, and he tells me, "what a surprise to hear from you!"
I'm suddenly scared and ashamed that I have called a doctor who isn't on call. The doctor starts explaining call and admission rules to me while I try to explain to him that I spilled poison and that my baby is obstructed.
This is all happening at work, and I still have to prepare a presentation for tomorrow!
...
I have a friend who lives in Sweden, and another in Russia, whose mother in law appeared in my dream, and they both get 16 MONTHS to spend with their babies. Granted, I might go nuts stuck at home for 16 months, but 12 weeks? Why are we the only civilized country in the world who doesn't think that motherhood is a worthy thing to support by society by, say, paying for leave? Who picked the number 12 weeks, when that is the time that the baby is just starting to develop a routine, which will be shattered by daycare? Why are we encouraged and even pressured to nurse for 6 months, but are forced to return to work in 12 goddamned weeks? Why an either/or choice imposed on us: either be a mom, OR work? AND in a world where not working is not an option for most people?
One thing I can say is, my dreams are very easily interpreted...
I've been watching the day get closer and closer with wobbly knees and moths in my stomach. (not butterflies, because those are harbingers of good things to come, and this will suck)
Last night, Munchkin had kind of a rough night, for us, considering that generally, he's been nothing but a little pleasure. And every time I got up to help him, I kept obsessively reminding myself that in 2 days I'm going back to work. Amazingly, instead of thinking, Poor me, I kept repeating, My poor baby, my poor baby...
After one of the times I got up, I had trouble falling back asleep. I tossed and turned and kicked the husband to punish him for his blissful snoring. When I finally passed out, I had the following dream.
I'm at work. I have a presentation to do, but I didn't prepare it. In fact, I don't even have a topic. I am choosing one: Maybe, I can present the case of the 43 year old who demanded a colonoscopy without indication, and we did it, and found a tumor. He also had ulcers. They weren't the source of his bleed, though. Then I think, I could make bleeding ulcers a teaching point, but I realize that I don't know the numbers, because I've been home and haven't looked at the material. I have a vague idea what they are, but obviously, that's not good enough for a presentation.
Someone else is speaking, and I'm frantically trying to finish my power point, but for some reason, instead of doing the power point, I'm surfing the internet, in spite of my dream self ordering my dream self to get to work. My friend is there, the one whose baby just turned 1, and her shiny power point is all finished, complete with the hospital's logo - and I was hoping that I wouldn't be the only one who didn't do her homework.
Then I realize that the "teacher" is a friend of my mom's, whose daughter in law also just had a baby, and has been on paid leave for a year and a half (real life true story), and I breathe a sigh of relief, because being a friend, surely, she'll give me an extension.
But in my haste and nervousness, I knock over a jar with some unpronounceable chemical name, and it spills everywhere.
The baby is there. I maybe nursed him in front of the whole class. Then he's crying and crying. There is a team of people around him, and I realize that we are rounding on the baby. We worry that maybe, the chemical that I spilled was poisonous, and now he's sick. What should we do about his crying? We apply an NG tube and liters and liters of bilious material mixed with water come up.
"Well," I say, "So we DO have reflux!" as if we've been wondering about it for days.
"OR...." says the attending, pimping me, exercising the Socratic teaching method, ie, expecting me to come up with the right answer.
Distal obstruction, distal obstruction! An invisible voice screams out in my head, and I picture an endoscopy of a person with a distal obstruction.
"Or, distal obstruction!" I shout out.
"Exactly," says the attending.
Relief ensues. Pimping session over.
But now, the baby is obstructed and I have to find him a doctor. Suddenly, it's the middle of the night. I am, once again, frantic, googling the name of Munchkin's doctor, but I can't get it right. I keep typing in the wrong first name, then I can't spell his last name, then I can't find the right link.
I finally get a hold of him, and he tells me, "what a surprise to hear from you!"
I'm suddenly scared and ashamed that I have called a doctor who isn't on call. The doctor starts explaining call and admission rules to me while I try to explain to him that I spilled poison and that my baby is obstructed.
This is all happening at work, and I still have to prepare a presentation for tomorrow!
...
I have a friend who lives in Sweden, and another in Russia, whose mother in law appeared in my dream, and they both get 16 MONTHS to spend with their babies. Granted, I might go nuts stuck at home for 16 months, but 12 weeks? Why are we the only civilized country in the world who doesn't think that motherhood is a worthy thing to support by society by, say, paying for leave? Who picked the number 12 weeks, when that is the time that the baby is just starting to develop a routine, which will be shattered by daycare? Why are we encouraged and even pressured to nurse for 6 months, but are forced to return to work in 12 goddamned weeks? Why an either/or choice imposed on us: either be a mom, OR work? AND in a world where not working is not an option for most people?
One thing I can say is, my dreams are very easily interpreted...
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