Silver Nitrate, A Cautionary Tale

At one of Jackson's first pediatric appointments, Dr. Judy asked me casually if I wanted her to put silver nitrate on his umbilical cord stub. She said it would help to remove it more quickly. Like any new (and ignorant) mom, I cheerfully agreed.

Very shortly thereafter, she asked me to help hold him still while she administered what looked to me like liquid silver (NOT mercury) onto his belly button with a cotton swab, swirling it around the base of the slowly rotting cord remains that once served to link my little dear to me and life-giving nourishment. Jackson squirmed some but he showed no signs of being bothered beyond a brief bout of crying before returning to his Mommy's embrace.

A side effect of the silver nitrate, she told me, was that he might have a temporary stain of silver on his navel. I could live with that. In a way, it was somewhat pretty. I would still need to exercise caution in keeping the recess clean with rubbing alcohol on a cotton swab.

Within a couple of days, sure enough, his umbilical cord had withered and fallen off, looking strangely identical to a raisin. I did not know what I wanted to do with it, so I set it on a shelf near his changing table and remained pleased that I would not have to expend extra care any longer in maneuvering clothing around the temporary appendage.

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About two weeks postpartum, I asked Andrew to inspect my nethers to be sure that everything was going properly in the area. He had not been willing to look at my stitches previously, and I can't say that I blame him with the red ocean within me receding via my vaginal orifice. I had been too nervous to really investigate my healing progress for myself.

Andrew expressed some concern that the perineal area may not have been healing as it should and suggested I make a visit to have it expertly examined. I contacted the midwife group and arranged to meet one of the women, Jackson in tow. She took a quick peek and told me everything looked great--for someone who just gave birth to a 10lb baby two weeks prior.

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Four weeks later, we couldn't wait any longer. I was due to get my 6-week postpartum exam by my midwife. Andrew and I had our first conjugal visit since the day I went into labor.

You might expect things to be loose after a woman has stretched to accommodate the exodus of another person. For me, this was not the case. I was tight. It was painful. Andrew said I felt like a virgin and jokingly commented that maybe we should wait 6 weeks every time between coitus. He is lucky that I'm a pacifist rather than a flying fist.

At my 6-week check-up, Shana (the midwife from the birth) examined me and declared all in order. She had me schedule my annual exam for July, prescribed me with the mini-pill (POP: progesterone only pill), and sent me out the door.

Sex continued to be painful, but it was fairly rare (too tired), and I had convinced myself that it was normal and would go away eventually. Or at least, I hoped so!

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July. Shana was my examiner again. Something didn't look right. My stitched area had some extra (granulation) tissue. Where the flesh was trying to rejoin, a small pink tree of me-bits had formed and was hanging around the opening to my progeny hatchery. This was beyond the realm of midwifery, and she arranged for me to meet with an OB/GYN in the practice.

I had never been to a male gynecologist before, and I wasn't particularly thrilled when I learned that was to be a changed aspect in my life. Sabrina the Magic Doula and I had become friends, and though she was near to her own due date, she agreed to watch Jackson (who had begun cruising voraciously) in the waiting room while I showed my privates to yet another stranger--only this time, a man.

The triage nurse was rude despite my attempts at friendly conversation, reminding her how she had taught my newborn care class. Then she put me into a room and made to wait in a stupid paper gown. After a while of getting some time to feel humiliated and vulnerable, as well as scared and anxious about the unknown proceedings about to occur, the doctor finally arrived with a seemingly mute nurse in attendance.

He examined me roughly, taking little care for my comfort and seeming confused when I protested that what he was doing hurt. Dr. Oblivious finally came to the conclusion that he would help me with my little pink flesh tree. He explained what needed to happen to ameliorate the situation.

I was informed that he would need to cauterize the excess tissue. My response was, "You mean you need to burn my crotch?"

He responded in the affirmative and set to work before giving me a chance to decide if I were even ready or willing to have anything done to me that visit. While he sprayed some surface anesthetic he called Hurricaine onto my delicate lady bits, I immediately began to feel a burning sensation almost as though pins and needles were trying to work their way to the outside world from within my skin.

I was so focused on the pain of the anesthetic (ironic, I know) that I neglected to see how he cauterized the pink tree. Some part of me believed it was accomplished via some kind of surgical blow torch, though admittedly I have no recollection of the actual means employed at the time. Only a guess.

When I was done, I was told to come back the next week for a followup appointment. I felt like limping, though when the injury is where your legs connect, limping doesn't really do much good, does it?

Sabrina had her baby by then, and no one else was available to watch Jackson, so I had my little cruising baby strapped into his gargantuan stroller at my next visit. I waited an eternity again in the paper gown, this time with a little boy who was not at all thrilled about being confined. Finally, the same doctor with the same seemingly mute nurse arrived.

He remembered me, evidently, and when time came to examine me, he said, "The Crotch needs to come down a little further on the table." Shortly afterward, without consulting me, he independently decided that the Crotch hadn't endured enough pain by his hands, and Doctor Oblivious proceeded to Hurricaine and burn me yet again. Greeeat.

Only this time, I found out what he used to burn me: silver nitrate!

Was it agonizingly, unbearably painful? No. But it hurt, and it hurt for days! I decided then and there that I was not going to go back to that doctor, for one, and for another, I would be certain to remember the experience next time I was flippantly asked if I wanted silver nitrate put on my kid!

The good news in all this, I suppose, is that I haven't had any problems with stitches, pink trees, or burnt-area sex pain, nor has Jackson had any side effects of his belly button removal. But if I had it to do over again, I would just let nature take its course with the umbilical cord and be patient, rather than unnecessarily causing my dear little newborn son any more pain than necessary.

Let the burn victim beware..?