The Diaper

There's nothing more disconcerting than that first diaper after your brand new son has been circumcised. My husband wasn't in the room as they wheeled our baby back after his longer than expected procedure, and as I pulled my recently halved body up in the bed, I saw the nurse pull a clipboard from under his little sleeping station. She went over the instructions way too fast. Dab this, don't rub, apply this goo, cotton for here. In my surgery fog, coupled with sheer exhaustion from recovery and new babyness, I didn't really understand anything she said. She left me there all alone with a small sleeping baby, fresh out of his own surgery.

I must have slept for a little while, because his short barking cries roused me from my bed. I slid myself down, forced my leg over the side, and stood, bent over from pain and stitches, waddling to his bed. I hurt so much, but all I could think about was the pained crying of my little man who has been stripped and brought back to me, less than whole. I smelled the poo as I neared him, heard his baby explosions barely contained within the diaper.

I let him finish, because I would want that same courtesy, and then pulled the wipes and a fresh diaper from underneath his station. There were cotton squares and clear jelly and a rough wash cloth. I reached for the wipes, pulled one, tucked it beside him in the bed, and opened his diaper.

I've seen movies. I've seen legs ripped off and blood flying from gun blasts. I've watched actors die on screen, their arteries squirting red bursts onto the set. But I have never, never seen such as when I opened his diaper.

His little wrinkled legs were kicking as he screamed louder and louder and I tried to catch his ankles flying through the air. There was blood on his... was that his penis? Oh, my god. That was not a penis. It was bare filling of what could have been, should have been a penis. He was covered in blood, and I felt myself sway as I realized all that a circumcision entailed. It was terrible.

And that was before the red urine came flying out of his bed and all over the sheets, blankets, booties, and floor. A mess. I was glad my husband wasn't there to see it.

I did my best, wiping his poop away with a wipe more gently than I had ever touched my daughter. She was whole. She was folds and hiding places. He was raw and exposed. I was unsure of how to address his red skin, flecks of poo hiding in the once clear goo already applied to him.

"Nurse!" I yelled, too much in pain from my own incision to waddle quickly to the bed for the call button. I yelled again. And again. And again. Eventually, one came to help me, to clean his front side, to apply the goo and cotton. She was gentle and kind to me, seeing my tears before I knew they were there.

I made it back to my bed, asking for pills, something strong, please, if you've got it. She changed his onsie, then settled us before taking the dirty linens and soiled diaper from his bed and changing his sheet and returning with medication to ease my pain. I laid there and let her handle everything, thankful that she wasn't recovering from a C-section, too, and could easily take care of the things I was unable to do.

Luckily, my little man slept for a while after that. Long enough for my husband to return. Long enough for my meds to kick in. Long enough for me to take a short nap.