Sometimes when I’m sleeping with my four year old son, I think about the hardest arterial or central line I’ve placed under the drapes in the middle of a surgical procedure. Picture this: a woman in scrub bottoms that she will forever be between sizes (because of course, cute scrubs are never sterile) who is so contorted you would think she had hypermobile Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome to help maintain sterility, and the glare hits the ultrasound screen at the exact spot she has to cannulate. In the background is some terrible country song playing so loudly you would think you were at the club. Oh if only 50 cent or Pitbull was on. The surgeon then mumbles their demands to adjust the bed height and angle as she hears the most audible disgruntled sigh as she puts dressings on. If I could do that, I can probably make it through one more night with the teeth grinding torpedo, for the cuddles. After all, there will be a time they say they won’t want to be with me, right? And no, I will never see a chiropractor in my life.
My husband cosleeps with our now sixteen month old son and I try to on days when I know I won’t be working the next day, just for those itty bitty baby snuggles. The two types of touch are so different, yet give me such a sense of relief and calm after they envelop me, especially after a long or rough day.
So much has changed as our family has grown – I think about the mom that I first was as a resident in training. I was fortunate to be in a supportive program with plenty of co-resident mamas to learn from and vent. Going back to residency after 8 weeks of maternity leave and thrust into pediatric anesthesia was one of the most difficult things I have done. I still remember the feeling of taking back infants who had been NPO (nothing per os, 4 hours to be exact for breast milk) to the operating room in my arms. They could smell my breastmilk and tried to get all snuggly, and oh boy, the joys of physiology just worked remarkably. I would promptly leak from my breasts and tears from my eyes followed almost instantaneously for the first few weeks. Tears I held in my mask because I had to just get them in the room and induce anesthesia to keep the day going.
I remember trying to take up as little space as possible then. I actively tried to not get into anyone’s way. I didn’t spend too much time on pump breaks; I didn’t want to take up too much space in the fridge with my supplies and milk; I didn’t want to feel like I was behind my peers for having a baby in residency and being judged for it despite – like I said earlier – I was lucky to be in a supportive program. Not everyone is. All the neuroscience data shows that a woman’s brain changes after having a baby and I kept fighting that early on. Pregnancy and mom brain.
I then contrast that with the mother I am as an attending in private practice. Even though pump breaks are mandated by law, there is no real guarantee of getting them consistently in this short staffed perioperative industry that continues to prioritize profits over retaining staff. From the beginning, I advocated for myself but could only do so much as the day to day unpredictability and lack of staff just made logistics difficult to get what I needed.
So, I decided to occupy space.
I put on my wearable pumps in the ORs under the drapes and took them off at my convenience. I told the nursing staff when to go and put my milk in the fridge if I couldn’t get a break or if the case was running behind than expected (surprise, surprise). I was not going to let circumstances at work stop me from doing what I wanted for my baby. And I know that fed is best and you have to do whatever works for you and baby. But for me, I needed that oxytocin rush when I got to go home and snuggle and feed my babies. I just didn’t want work to decide for me what I had to choose between.
I am proud of the physician I am today after becoming a mom. Mom brain is what keeps generations going. I am more empathetic, humble in admitting when I don’t know and then look it up, (must be from all those “why” questions my toddler keeps asking me), and a better communicator in the operating room. I had a mentor who used to tell me to talk to surgeons (mostly the male kind) like a toddler. Both have tantrums and unreasonable demands, so the key is to try to make them think they came up with your plan.
My take away from my toddlers is that we should also take up as much space as we want and need. No shame. No judgement. Just ask for what you need and hope for the best. And if the best isn’t what you envisioned, do everything you can to make it work. But keep persisting and advocating for all those women who are bound to follow in your steps.
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