Birth and arrival story - part III of IV

A word of introduction:

Why do I want to share this story? There is almost nothing about Samuel’s birth that went how I had thought it would go. Processing through this story has been challenging for me, but also surprisingly easy. There are so many narratives about birth in our culture. I recommend (and will continue to recommend) this article. I am working to claim this birth as our story and writing helps me to do that. I share it because I believe in the importance of sharing even birth stories that are labeled as negative or traumatic. 

A quick word about our story - like most parents, we researched every decision and made what we felt was the absolute best decision for ourselves and for our baby. For us, that means we planned to have a home birth. Home births, particularly in the United States where emergency medical care is available when needed, are incredibly low risk. We had an exceptional story. However, we still believe home births are an excellent option for some families. Negative comments about this will be deleted. Thank you for being respectful of our decisions and our story. 

Trigger warning - this is the story of a traumatic birth experience. We are all okay now, but if birth trauma is triggering to you, you may wish to avoid. 

Our first meeting. This is you at one day old. I hear that most women are shocked upon seeing their baby - "Wait, how did he/she fit inside me?" I think I might have an extreme case of that. 

Just for fun, let's go back to this photo, taken two days before the one above!  (Insert jaw-drop here)

Dear Samuel,

We had just met at the end of the last little chapter of this tale. Here’s what happened next…

I wondered if and hoped that the sound of my voice would create some kind of reaction, so I watched your face and body closely. But morphine is a strong drug, and you did not stir at all. “Can I touch him?” “Absolutely,” said his kind nurse. I gently placed my pointer finger in your hand and with my other fingers, closed your  palm around it. I stroked your hand. It was much larger than I was expecting, and not as cold as I thought it was going to be. Then I just stood and took you in. The machines, the wires, and the glimpses of you underneath. I kissed the tiny hand. (Caleb was graciously holding my pee bag at this point, or maybe I had found a place to hang it up.)

Your head was extremely cone-shaped from the birth. You had not had a bath yet, and had bits of dried fluid around your hair, adhering it to your head and making it look both dark and curly. Your head had several electrodes in so they could watch your brain activity. There were bruises on either side of your head from the forceps, but I couldn’t really see those yet. Your head was too big for their biggest C-PAP hat, so they had cut one into a headband. You had an IV line into your umbilical cord stump and a variety of other wires to monitor your heart rate and oxygen. There was a tiny blood pressure cuff with a dinosaur around your ankle. Your whole body was extremely swollen. “He doesn’t even have rolls,” I thought. “He is just puff.”

I felt the same fierce love for you I had felt all through pregnancy, but I didn’t yet feel a strong connection. And of course, I also thought, “Wait. He was inside of me yesterday?!” I could hardly imagine how you had fit. I am told that all moms experience this phenomenon, but it seems like it might be stronger with an 11 lb baby. 

Caleb and I stood next to you and talked about the gravity of deciding on a name for someone. I still really hadn’t seen your face, which is what I had thought I needed in order to name you. But we knew we’d have to wait two or three more days before we could see your little face, and that seemed like an awfully long time to wait. Fortunately, there were only three names on our boy list. And only one of them fit you - Samuel. Your middle name, Joseph, was not even a question since there are important Josephs on both sides of the family. 

“Do you want to tell him his name?” I asked Caleb. Caleb nodded and took a few emotional seconds to collect himself. We held hands. “Welcome to the world Samuel Joseph,” he said to you with tears in his eyes. “We love you so much.” 

Shortly after that, I got tired and so we returned back upstairs to the ICU. We spent the rest of the day there, me pumping every two hours, Caleb going between my room and yours with the pumped colostrum on the flanges, which he would swab the drips inside your mouth and around your gums with a sterile Q-tip. Because we hadn’t planned on going to the hospital, we had very limited things. Relatives brought Caleb a change of clothes and he showered in the NICU. Finally, we hunkered down for the night, Caleb back on the floor, me in my bed, with an alarm set to pump every two hours. Around 3am, our nurse came in with an aide and announced that we were now going to be transferring rooms. “Now?” we asked. I had a hard time waking up, but Caleb jumped up and packed all our things. We moved downstairs and into a spacious labor and delivery suite with an in-room bathroom and shower. The nurse downstairs got me all set up with an ice pack and some other nice amenities for my sore and swollen underside and it felt so magical. ICU nurses are some of the best in the hospital, but they do not have the expertise of a L&D nurse in caring for women’s sore parts postpartum. Caleb got an upgrade from the floor to a pull-out bed and slept deeply. I tried not to wake him when I woke up to pump the next two times. The L&D floor was quiet and dark and restful. Our room was large with a wall of big windows. I took a shower here. We had some misadventures with the catheter, and wondered if my bladder nerves were permanently shot - having more than 1 liter in there can ruin the nerves’ ability to function. The best part of moving to this floor was that you were just a wheelchair ride away, rather than an elevator. We had a wonderful nurse who I’ll call Jillian, that was attentive to our needs and also quite chatty. We visited you several times throughout the day.

It was a strange day, with relatives coming and going, coming and going. Fortunately we had a big room to host all these guests. Around 7pm, I was pumping with the help of the lactation consultant, when we learned we’d be moving again - this time to the Mother-Baby unit. We loaded up all our things once again and moved to a much smaller room, with a view of a wall. More relatives showed up, but graciously agreed to stay with Caleb in the waiting room while I finished pumping. As I sat there pumping, with the lactation consultant, I took in my new room. On the dry erase board was a pre-made template that was designed for someone else. Under “GOALS”, it said “Stay pregnant.” That made me smile.This ward was not as quiet as Labor and Delivery. I could hear tiny newborns crying outside my room. Suddenly I was overwhelmed. The lactation consultant was saying something else when suddenly my eyes filled up with tears. She stopped. “I just… am hearing all these babies and I wish that I was hearing my baby cry.” I blubbered. “I’ve never even heard him cry.” She swiftly got up and shut the door, muffling the cries slightly. She comforted me and then explained that this ward was even closer to you. Any time I wanted to see you, I could. Caleb or a nurse or an aide could push me right over and I could pump in your room where I could see you, even though I couldn’t hold you. “Yes, I want to do that,” I blubbered through tears. It hurt deeply. Around this time, Jillian, our nurse from Labor and Delivery, came in with our new night nurse. They finished their rounds, but having seen my tears, she stopped in the waiting room on the way out to her car. “You should go be with your wife,” she told Caleb, and he came quickly, ever supportive. 

(Eventually, they change the template of my dry erase board to something almost as painful as hearing the babies crying. It now read, "GOALS - Breastfeeding, Skin to Skin, Bond with Baby". I tried to ignore them, but they stared me in the face when I was in bed. I made sure to always pump with my back facing them.)

That night, I pumped sometimes in your room and sometimes in my room. We had some poop misadventures (mine) due to an overdose of laxatives. The next day was Sunday, and your dad and I requested a day with no visitors. We needed time to think and process everything we’d experienced so far. It turned out that was a great decision for you. You had been fighting to warm your body temperature back up, and we could no longer touch you or make any noises in your room. We had to keep all stimulation to a minimum, so it was dark and quiet. I could still pump in there, but we couldn’t talk to you anymore. I would stand at your bed and hold my hands up and try to just surround you with my love. I would picture you in a bubble of love and light and try to transmit to you that you were safe and loved. “I promise that once you are done with this treatment that there are so many hugs and cuddles and wonderful things waiting for you.” I thought at you. 

Between those hard moments, Caleb and I talked a lot and had texting breaks where we would both sit down and text various people updates for a given amount of time. Because of the complications with my bladder, I had to monitor my fluid intake and output. Every two hours, I practiced walking, pushing the wheelchair down the hall, through the doors into the NICU and to your room to pump. The first trip exhausted me and I had to be wheeled back afterwards, but I quickly gained strength. A nurse mentioned to me that I didn’t have to keep wearing the hospital gown if I wanted to put on my own clothes. I laughed. “I didn’t bring any clothes!” I told her. And I loved wearing that gown. It was so convenient for pumping and having a catheter. 

At one point a strange thing happened - your dad and I started to feel like we were on vacation. It was extremely strange, but there we were, having an intense experience outside our normal life, bonding together. We were well-supported by the hospital staff. We didn’t have to think too much about meals. We did worry about our chickens - constantly looking for a volunteer to please collect eggs, make sure they had food, water, were locked up for the night, let out in the morning. We hugged often, and sat as close to each other as we could. We even watched a little bit of The Office or maybe it was Gilmore Girls on Netflix. I kept telling him how luxuriously wonderful my back felt now that I wasn’t pregnant. I kept telling him that I was pretty sure I was the exceptional case and that I had magically gone back to my pre-pregnancy weight (I had not) because LOOK HOW SKINNY I AM NOW THAT I’M NOT PREGNANT. It’s amazing what losing 11 lbs of baby (and, you know, everything else that goes with it) does for your self-image! 

Towards the end of Sunday, a funny thing started to happen. Caleb and I had been going to your room together. To go into the NICU from Mother-Baby, there was a secret back door that was locked. There was a phone you picked up to ring security. Whenever Caleb would pick it up, he would say “I’d like to go to the NICU, please.” and they would open the door. When I started going by myself, I would pick up the phone and say the same thing. I must have looked *extra* suspicious on the security camera in my hospital gown carrying my pump parts and catheter bag, because they would never just let me in. “What’s your name?” they’d ask. “Which baby are you going to see?” 

Over the night from Sunday to Monday, they had started to warm you up. It was a delicate and carefully monitored process. At this point, we didn’t know what the status was of your brain damage, or if you would respond well to warming back up. The pace was very slow, about half a degree every few hours. As they warmed you, they also slowly decreased your morphine and hoped to also bring you off of oxygen. If you showed any little blip in your temperature, oxygen levels, or any sign of morphine withdrawal, the process would pause. It could take up to 24 hours. I chose to pump in my room instead of yours for two of my night time pumps to minimize stimulation even more. When we went in to check on you Monday morning, we weren’t sure what to expect. But the whole process had gone exceedingly smoothly. They had been able to warm you at the fastest pace. You were finally warm and in your incubator with the lid on. You were still only wearing a diaper and covered in wires, but now your arms and legs were spread out, relaxed instead of clenched. Your cheeks were rosy. And the best part? Today we would get to hold you.

Part I 

Part II 

Part IV 

Birth and arrival story - part II of IV

A word of introduction:

Why do I want to share this story? There is almost nothing about Samuel’s birth that went how I had thought it would go. Processing through this story has been challenging for me, but also surprisingly easy. There are so many narratives about birth in our culture. I recommend (and will continue to recommend) this article. I am working to claim this birth as our story and writing helps me to do that. I share it because I believe in the importance of sharing even birth stories that are labeled as negative or traumatic. 

A quick word about our story - like most parents, we researched every decision and made what we felt was the absolute best decision for ourselves and for our baby. For us, that means we planned to have a home birth. Home births, particularly in the United States where emergency medical care is available when needed, are incredibly low risk. We had an exceptional story. However, we still believe home births are an excellent option for some families. Negative comments about this will be deleted. Thank you for being respectful of our decisions and our story. 

Trigger warning - this is the story of a traumatic birth experience. We are all okay now, but if birth trauma is triggering to you, you may wish to avoid. 

My first glimpses of you (here I am comparing a photo of your dad's hand with yours to your dad's hand with mine)

Dear Samuel, 

We left off with a cliffhanger didn’t we? When I was a little girl, I used to read Nancy Drew books. (Let’s be honest, I still read them!) I hated cliff hangers, so I would always stop in the middle of a chapter… or read the whole book in one night. But enough introduction. Let’s continue….

The man and the woman standing above me are my nurses. They ask me if I know what day it is. “March 2”, I say. “But I’m not sure what time it is, so maybe it’s March 3 now.” I then notice a clock - the minute hand moves to midnight, March 3. “Do you know where you are?” they ask. “No,” I respond, noticing that I am on my lying on my back for the first time in six months. I move my hands over my much smaller belly. “Wasn’t I pregnant?”

Caleb asks me if I remember, but I don’t. I am at a nearby hospital, one renown for high-risk pregnancies and extreme medical emergencies. Good thing it’s the closest one to our house. 

I don’t remember the emergency transfer from our home to the hospital, riding in the back of Caleb’s car while he did 50 in a 35 during rush hour. I don’t remember that when we were getting ready to leave, my midwife held out her arms to help me out and I walked right past her, not even seeing her. I don’t remember them asking me to make decisions I was not capable of making. I don’t remember that Caleb, my partner and best friend, took over, making scary decisions for all of us. I don’t remember the episiotomy, the forceps, kicking doctors, biting my IV lines, or your shoulder getting stuck and them ripping it out. 

“Did I have the baby?” I asked Caleb, that night in the ICU, slowly starting to realize what would take me months or maybe a lifetime to process. “Is the baby okay?”

“We don’t know,” Caleb responded gently, honestly. We held hands tightly, and in the short minutes after, I learned from him that we had you! At that moment, you were an 11 lb (5 kg) baby boy in the NICU who had suffered seizures shortly after birth. I learned of the flurry of medical tests administered to both of us after you was born when I appeared to be conscious, but continued to be non-verbal and non-responsive. And Caleb texted my mom, who was still in the waiting room and came flying in to see me before driving the 50 minutes home for the night, much more relieved than she could have hoped for. 

“I love you,” Caleb and I whispered back in forth to each other all night. They were out of cots, so he slept on the floor next to my bed.  

I’ve never been able to sleep on my back. But that night, that is exactly how I slept as I received electrolytes by IV and by stomach injection, had my catheter bag emptied frequently by one of my two nurses, and received a heavy duty course of antibiotics, just for good measure. The next morning, I realized how sore I was. My “under carriage” was very painful. It hurt my ab muscles to sneeze. (No one told me it was going to hurt to sneeze!) 

Many things happened the next morning. In no particular order, a physical therapist came and helped me get out of bed and sitting up. (Major ouch.) The lactation team came and brought me a pump, and I started the first of many pumping sessions. A nurse came up from Labor and Delivery and brought me an ice pack. Sweet relief. All morning long, nurses and doctors came in to check on me. “Do you remember me?” they asked. My answer was always no. Several of the nurses wept when they came in. “I thought about you all night,” one said. “I was so worried that you weren’t going to be okay. I am so glad you are okay.”

A fairly blunt anesthesiologist who had helped repair my tear explained to me that they had a scale from 1-4. One is alive and normal. Four is dead. “Yesterday I gave you a three,” she said. Not knowing what else to say, I said, “So what would you give me today?” She looked me up and down. “Two.”

I met with the resident and two supervising OBs who delivered “Baby Boy”, your name at that point. I met with anesthesiologists and surgeons who had provided care for me. Through it all, a narrative began to take shape. No one knew why my baby was so big. I had tested negative for gestational diabetes, a common cause of big babies. False negatives are possible on the test, but neither baby nor I had any trouble maintaining stable blood sugar after birth. Most of my numbers were normal. It finally came down to one thing: sodium. 

Everyone knows how important it is to stay hydrated. Those who have taken a birth class know that they will suggest to you that you take a sip of water between each contraction to make sure you don’t get dehydrated. This is particularly important if you are hoping to have an intervention free birth. I followed this advice and then some. I found that contractions made me thirsty, so I chugged water between each one. Because I was at home, I also drank coconut water, and an electrolyte drink at one point. 

Unknown to everyone at the time, my sweet (big) baby’s head dropped down, and when this happened, his head pinched my urethra shut. I continued to take in fluid, but was unable to eliminate any of it (hence the shadowy memories of people telling me to pee, me trying to pee, and nothing coming out.) Scans taken after he was born showed my bladder and kidneys as extremely distended. I was catheterized after he was born, and they drained 4 liters of urine in an hour. If you’re not handy with the metric system (and I recommend you get handy with it) picture two two-liter bottles of soda. In an hour. Over the next few hours, four additional liters were drained. 

A quick word about sodium levels in the blood - Normal sodium levels range between 130-145 milliequivalents per liter. When our baby had seizures after he was born, they learned that his sodium levels were 116. Mine were 114. “114 is critically low.” explained the anesthesiologist. “And we believe the levels had risen by that time.” 

She continued, “We couldn’t figure out why you were acting the way you were acting, because you hadn’t received any medication except the light anesthesia we gave you to repair your tear. But people don’t act that way from that anesthesia. None of your other numbers explained it - but a sodium level of 114 absolutely does.”

Another doctor shared, “I am so glad your midwife made the decision to bring you in when she did. I truly believe that that saved your life.”

I signed off for the doctors to publish a case study on my, no, our experience. As the dust began to settle from the day before, I began to recover from my shock and I began itching to see you. Because you were in the NICU and I was in the ICU, neither of us was cleared to change floors. I started asking every doctor and nurse who came in when I would get to see you. I had waited for so many months already!  To know that you were so nearby but that I couldn’t see you was so hard! My parents, Caleb’s parents and siblings came to visit and went down to see you, bringing me back photos which I cherished and tried to wrap my mind around. The only thing was that even in these photos, I couldn’t really see you.

Oh wait - I think I forgot to mention something. Because your seizures happened within six hours of birth, and because when they happened, no one knew the cause or the severity, the strictest protocol was followed. You were put in what is vaguely referred to as “cooling therapy” but is more accurately described as therapeutic hypothermia. You were put on high levels of morphine to keep you relaxed and to prevent you from shivering and warming yourself up. The morphine depressed your ability to breathe, so you were also put on a tiny C-PAP machine. Then your body temperature was dropped to around 92 degrees for three days. I will forever be grateful that the first thing Caleb did when I was carted off to surgery was to go in and do skin to skin with you. It brought me so much comfort to know that you knew your dad’s warm embrace before you had seizures and before you were made very cold. The photos I mentioned above were photos of a very big baby that was covered with wires, tubes, and machines. 

“He has my eyes, your toes, and my hands,” was one of the first things your dad said to me about you. (All accurate, even today.) At one point during the morning,  a nurse told me that my ICU status had been lifted. This meant that I was cleared to be transferred off the floor, but had to wait for a bed to open up on the maternity floor. Finally, around 2:45pm, I was wheeled down the hall, down the elevator, and to your NICU room. Nurses smiled at me, “Are you Mom?” they all asked eagerly. “You look great! We’re so glad you’re here!” It felt like a safe and happy place. I was so eager. “Yes!” I thought to myself. “I am Mom! I am going to see my baby!”

The tech who was wheeling me stopped at the door of the room. It was dark, to keep you from being too stimulated (and therefore warming yourself up). I had barely been able to walk or stand, but I suddenly found strength. Nothing was going to stop me now. I sanitized my hands at the door, picked up my catheter bag and slowly walked into the mostly quiet room, the only noise being the puff of the C-PAP machine. 

It was a moment that was nothing like I expected. All pregnancy long, I had yearned for the moment right after delivery when the baby is placed on Mama’s chest. I was waiting and hoping that moment was going to help my mind connect all the kicks and wiggles and hiccups I’d been feeling to the actual infant in my arms. I was waiting for the midwife, Caleb, or maybe even myself to swoop the baby up in an arc from delivery to my chest, moving the baby across a symbolic bridge spanning the foggy underwater world of “in utero” to the clear sharpness of newborn. The loss of that particular moment haunts me. 

And yet, all of that was forgotten or placed aside as I stepped up to your isolette. “Can I talk to him?” I whispered to the nurse. “Of course!” she said. 

“Hi sweetie,” I said softly. “I’m your mommy.”

Part III 

Part IV 

Birth and arrival story - part I of IV

To begin:

Why do I want to share this story? There is almost nothing about Samuel’s birth that went how I had thought it would go. Processing through this story has been challenging for me, but also surprisingly easy. There are so many narratives about birth in our culture. I recommend (and will continue to recommend) this article. I am working to claim this birth as our story and writing helps me to do that. I share it because I believe in the importance of sharing even birth stories that are labeled as negative or traumatic. 

A quick word about our story - like most parents, we researched every decision and made what we felt was the absolute best decision for ourselves and for our baby. For us, that means we planned to have a home birth. Home births, particularly in the United States where emergency medical care is available when needed, are incredibly low risk. We had an exceptional story. However, we still believe home births are an excellent option for some families. Negative comments about this will be deleted. Thank you for being respectful of our decisions and our story. 

Trigger warning - this is the story of a traumatic birth experience. We are all okay now, but if birth trauma is triggering to you, you may wish to avoid. 

The classic bathroom selfie - one day before going into labor with my 11 lb baby

Dear Samuel,

I want to tell you about how you were born. But first I need to tell you a few things about how I expected your birth to go.

I had super loose expectations, to be honest. Your dad and I chose to have you at home with a midwife, rather than at the hospital because we believed it to be the healthiest and best option for you. I was never scared of birth. I looked forward to it, to feeling the sensations, to feeling what people described as the power of a freight train coursing through me, bringing you to the outside.

Of course, I was also 90% sure you were a little girl.

March 1 was your due date - a date I guarded furiously from everyone. “Baby’s due late February, early March,” I would say when asked. I spent most of my pregnancy convinced you would go until around a week after that - but in January, you dropped and my Braxton-Hicks contractions, or “practice rushes” as I liked to call them, became regular after activity and were coming every night. My midwife asked us to plan for what we’d do if you came 5-6 weeks early. We panicked a bit, and got excited. We made sure to get a carseat for you. I designated a shelf of things we’d need for you if we had to go to the hospital (necessary for a delivery before 36 weeks.) I talked to you constantly, explaining the practice rushes, asking you to wait just a little bit longer, but also giving you permission to come early if you needed to. 

You waited.

February came and began to draw to a close. I nested furiously the whole month. On Sunday, February 26, it was the Sunday before Ash Wednesday. I was so, so pregnant, and so uncomfortable. I spent most of church moving constantly in the back of church - foreshadowing for what we do with you now at church. Our pastor, Tim, asked us what was getting in the way of relationship with others for us, and challenged us to give that up for Lent. “Well, that’s easy,” I thought, pacing, sitting, squatting alone away from everyone. “I would happily give up pregnancy for Lent.”

Ash Wednesday was your due date. I felt normal that day. I went to work, but skipped the Ash Wednesday service offered, deciding with your dad that we would go to the one at our church at 7 that night. I felt a freedom that no one but your dad and me knew that it was my due date, and planned to celebrate you not being born on it the next day with ice cream and perhaps announcing that we had passed it. 

After work, Caleb and I ate and snuggled up in bed. I voiced a fear I had been feeling along with something else - I told Caleb, “I haven’t felt any fear about birth, but I do have a tiny fear that something might happen to me and I might not make it.

“I want you to know,” I continued, tears streaming down my face, “that if anything were to happen to me, I know that you would be the most wonderful and perfect Dad and parent to our child. I know you could do it and that our child would grow up feeling so, so loved.”

Our conversation turned more positive and we stayed close for a while. It felt more important for us to stay together and connect rather than go to church, so we decided to skip it. Around 8:30, we started to get ready for sleep. We were sleeping in different beds at this point in pregnancy because I took up so much room and used so many pillows. I checked my email and got an email from my dear yoga teacher Jen, saying that she had made the birth blend I’d requested and left it in our mailbox that evening. She suggested using it before birth to develop some relaxation association with the smells. I had been stretching my back and doing deep breathing before bed each night, so I realized it was the perfect time to try it. 

Caleb went to bed, and I started doing my stretches. I inhaled the oil deeply and it brought back so many wonderful memories. Caleb and I going to yoga class every Monday, driving on the brick road, cooking dinner, walking to the park. I stretched out over the exercise ball and just felt good. I felt deeply relaxed and open. 

Then I felt a sensation. A really, really strong sensation. I breathed through it and was determined not to label it as painful, just as sensation. I remained calm, fairly sure I had just had a contraction, but knowing that didn’t mean labor was impending. I drank some water, and went to bed. Another one came and it was so, so intense. “Okay,” I decided. “Time to tell Caleb. I’m going to need his help.”

It’s worth noting that since we’d been sleeping in separate beds, any time I had gone into the room Caleb was sleeping in during the night, he had nearly shot straight up wondering if I was in labor. I promised that I would tell him and he didn’t need to worry about it until then. 

I opened the door and crept in his room. “Love?” I said softly. I sat down on his bed. “I think I might be in labor. It’s really intense and I need you.” He sat up and held me, immediately present. I filled him in on the situation. Another contraction, or rush as I wanted to call them, came. I wanted to call them rushes to focus on their purpose, which was to open the way for you to arrive. We call them contractions, but they actually expand us. 

I couldn’t talk during the rushes. As determined as I was to not to label them as painful, they were very painful. I tried all my techniques that I had practiced and learned, but there was nothing to do but get through them. Caleb began timing them. I had a hard time knowing when they were ending, because it felt like they lingered and then picked back up so quickly. “How long was that one? How many minutes since the last one?” I kept asking. Caleb would answer vaguely “Long enough. Don’t worry about it.”

I had anticipated early labor being slow, but after what felt like an eternity and like no time at all, Caleb said we should call our midwife, as my contractions had been 1 minute long, 4 minutes apart, or longer and closer, since I had gotten him. Our midwife suggested we have our doula come over, and we did. She was very strong and calm and great at timing the contractions, sensing when they began and ended. Shortly after arriving, she recommended we call our midwife, as the contractions were now 1 minute long and only 2 minutes apart. (12:30am)

I remember our midwife coming and asking me how I was doing. I remember saying something along the lines of, “I thought I was going to get breaks and I am not getting any breaks.” (1:15)

I didn’t have a lot of time to think, but knew without thinking how I wanted only silence and darkness and no scents. Everyone’s smell bothered me, even Caleb’s. At one point, I was laboring in your room, which Caleb had quickly transformed from his bedroom to a birthing room by carrying his mattress upstairs, inflating and filling the birthing pool. There was only a single candle lit and I held my hand up to block its light. I alternated between the bed, the shower, and the birthing pool, wishing for sleep and for a break, but with no time to think, I just pressed on. 

I have no idea when the midwife checked me the first time, but I was at a 6. The next time I was at a 7. My memories here begin to grow foggy. I remember hearing a machine noise, which bothered me, and Caleb explained that our doula was pumping, as she had a small baby of her own at home. I remember everyone dozing off throughout the night (Caleb stayed awake through it all, but was understandably very tired) and feeling frustrated that I couldn’t doze off, but they all could. I felt frustrated that I had to wake them up as contractions came and went with minimal breaks. Our midwife took a nap in another room, then our doula. Caleb stayed by my side through it all. 

At one point it was light out and morning had come. I felt awful, as one does after staying up all night, but worse because of all the hard work. The second midwife arrived and she was very fresh. I asked the first midwife if that meant I was close to transition (changing from laboring to bring the baby down to actually pushing). She said “We’ll see.” Everyone was very vague with me, not wanting to promise anything, but all the vagueness made me frustrated.  Around 11 am, I was laboring in the birthing pool with instructions to push, when there was suddenly dark fluid around me. I asked, “What happened?” “Your water broke!” a midwife told me. 

From here the memories grow even fainter - a midwife asking me to sit on the toilet and pee, no pee coming and us moving along. Me pushing in the tub, pushing in bed, pushing on all fours, bracing myself on the bed and pushing. Being instructed to hold my breath and push, the opposite of what I had been told to do during contractions. Pushing as hard as I could and them still telling me to push more. The midwife saying she could see the head and it had hair (!). Waiting to feel the baby’s body moving down, but not feeling it. More nightmare-ish memories of pushing as hard as I could while they told me to push more. Pain and exhaustion.

And then, nothing. 

In a dream, I am lying in a very ugly gray/beige room. My mom and mother-in-law are standing above me acting very excited. They are wearing yellow rectangular stickers on their shirts. They are so excited, but I am so tired. They are too animated. I close my eyes and go back to sleep. 

In the same dream, I am in the same room. Now there are two strangers above me - a man and a woman. They aren’t too excited, they are calm. They ask me my name. “Ellen” I tell them. I feel confused and a little worried. Then I turn and seem Caleb to my left. Because he is there, I know everything is okay. But it is not a dream. I am in the ICU.  

Part II 

Part III 

Part IV 

Finding my way back

Today was an anxiety day. I knew it was coming. I haven't been able to sit still with myself for a couple of weeks... but I didn't notice right away. I dedicated every moment to cleaning or reading or cooking or planning or some activity. And last night, something caught inside of me and I paused for a second.

That second was terrifying. The silence was too loud, the weeks' (maybe months'?) worth of thoughts came flooding as the dam sprung a leak. I committed to go to bed and pray about what was scaring me about being alone and being still.

Then I fell asleep.

This morning I woke up and went to work without pausing. I ate too much too many times and when Caleb was not ready to leave at 4:30, but instead at 4:40, I fell apart.

It's at moments like these that I have great empathy for toddlers.

This evening has been a time of being quiet, first with Caleb (it helps to have someone help you find true north if you've been wandering for a while) and next, the more daunting task, with myself. It's going to take a little practice, but I think we're going to find our way again. We always do. 

Empty boxes

Today, I cut up all the boxes that my chicks have lived in since April. On Monday, all five chickens miraculously became best friends. After a month of careful introducing and monitoring, something finally clicked (clucked?), and they have been peaceably living together outside ever since.

And we were left with empty boxes inside.

I have been over the moon that they are happy living outside, free ranging, with the space to fly and run. And for Sadie - our sweet first chicken - to finally have a flock and friends to cuddle with and cluck at.

I realized today, five days after they last came inside, that I didn't realize how temporary the arrangement of the past four months had been. It seemed like we would always have chicks in the living room, or in the back bedroom, or in the basement. We developed a system for quickly cleaning up and sanitizing if they pooped when we were holding them. We checked on them before we left for work and immediately when we got home. (Actually, that hasn't changed. It's just that now they are in the yard.)

But now, as long as they all stay healthy, we probably won't have chickens in the house for years. We are at our limit with five, so we won't be getting new chicks every spring.

It made me think of life stages that I have yet to experience. Friends with infants and toddlers who are just sort of getting by, longingly remembering when they picked up a room and it stayed clean for days, or when they could drink their coffee while it was hot. My parents dropping me off at college with tears in their eyes as they got into the car, three instead of four. The video I saw of the woman who lives in a nursing home that also houses a preschool: she looked at the little ones running around and said to no one in particular, "It just goes by so fast."

Days pass and feel long and ordinary, but then a moment happens, a moment that feels surprising, but really you have been slowly coming upon it for a long time, hour by hour, day by day. I think these moments are a particular kind of gift. They illuminate how far we have come or not come and suddenly we have the rare insight of perspective. 

To my mom, on Mother's Day

Dear Mom,

I saw this quote this morning on Facebook and it expressed something that I've felt for a long time. And when I learned that the daughter of the mother-daughter duo who founded Mother's day thought it was very silly for children to sign their name to a card with someone else's sentiments, I knew that I wanted to write this for you, to tell you about this.

When I am rolling out pie or cookie dough, it is as if I am rolling the dough, but behind me is you, and your hands are also rolling out the dough. And behind you is Grandma, and her hands are also rolling out the dough, and behind her is Grandma King, and her hands are also reaching through time and we are all rolling out the dough together.

But it's not just the rolling pin. It happens when I am cutting rhubarb in your yard that came from Grandma's house and before that was planted at Great-Grandma King's house, or when I am folding napkins for a dinner party, or when I am cutting flowers from my yard.

And when our car pulled over on the side of a winding mountain road in the Dominican Republic at a roadside flower stand, you were there, in me, as I identified hydrangeas, petunias, snowball bushes and more. Or when I was in the hotel in Nairobi, and they had a fuchsia bush-lined path to the patio, our feet walked it together.

The first time my friend came over and was upset about something so far outside of the scope of my experience, we all sat together; and I watched you. I learned one of the most valuable lessons: how to be with someone who is suffering when you don't have any answers.

I think that intuition, or mom-tuition as we call it, is innate, but it's also cultivated. And you've passed on from your mom what she received from her mom, what she received from her mom, and back so many generations of strong and wise women that it's almost dizzying to think about.

Earlier today, you had climbed up on a high ladder to look at a light bulb. You said,"You guys make me feel brave and strong and safe." It was funny to me, because that's how you make us feel too.

I was going to write in you card, but I just didn't have enough room. I know we usually keep things funny when we give cards in this family, so let me also share that when I am about to "Wicks" someone, you are also there, in the pranking. (Even when it's you who are getting pranked.) Or when I am somewhere and I realize that it is a special and spectacular moment, and no one is photographing it, so I step up. Or when I realize that I really need to eat a bowl of cereal for lunch.

Maybe sometime we can print this, and stick it in the card. Until then. happy mother's day, and let's go throw an egg at Ralph. 

I had an eating disorder. (And how I found the psychologist who helped me.)

Let me start here: I think it's probably close to impossible to make it to adulthood with a healthy relationship with food. As far as I always knew, the conversation around eating disorders revolves around two main disorders: anorexia and bulimia.

But about 5 years ago, I knew there was something wrong with me. I had gone from being someone who never worried about her weight or really thought too much about food, to the opposite of this. It started while I was living in Spain, with few close friends and a lot of alone time. I frequently would eat until I felt sick. I would secretly buy food and hide it in my room or in the back of the pantry so that no one knew how much I was eating. I called my mom and would cry to her about how painfully full I was, and how lonely and just generally anxious.

Because binging alone was never something I'd learned about as an eating disorder, I figured I didn't need to seek help unless I made myself throw up. (Word of advice - if you think you might need help, get it, even if it doesn't quite fit your expectations of a condition.)

I moved back home at the end of the school year and moved back in with my family. I reconnected with lots of friends, and found a job that I loved. I was no longer lonely, and a lot of the stresses from the year before faded away. But I still continued to binge. I tried going on a diet plan, which helped some, but not a lot. Being around people helped... but as soon as I was alone, I went straight for the fridge.

[A note about weight - I am a genetically small-framed person and I was exercising a lot. So, though I did gain weight, I was still well within a healthy weight for my height.]

 So finally one day in the spring of 2011, I found a self-screening test online. I resonated with a part that said, "Underneath obsessive dieting, disordered eating and body image disturbance, there is a lack of self worth." I cried, and then I wrote an email to two wise women from my church. The subject was "not really sure who to email..." I began like this:

"I'm not really sure how to begin. This is a very strange email for me to write. Getting straight to the point, I think I have an eating disorder and I think I need help dealing with it and I don't know where to go next. For over a year now, I have struggled to manage my emotions in a way that doesn't involve cramming food into my mouth...."

Both women responded within a few days. I got connected with another woman who had also experienced this. [Shout out - if you're struggling with this and you need someone to talk about it with, I would love to be that person.] Everyone encouraged me to seek professional counseling. I got a few names, and also did my own research using this site. I called them and interviewed them. I left messages and noted their response times. If they were a "Christian counselor", I asked them what that meant - I had a lot of friends who prayed for me, I wanted someone who was going to do a lot more that that. I asked what a typical session would be like with them.  I asked about their hours. I asked them if they had experience working with someone with an eating disorder and how those people had faired. Because I was still within a year of completing a capstone psychology class, I nerdily asked them what modalities they used. I asked if they took my insurance. But more than anything, I used these questions to feel out if I would be comfortable talking to them about what felt like my deepest, darkest secrets.

And that's how I met Marilyn. There was something about our conversation that reminded me of other mentors I'd had... Plus she took insurance and could see me at 4pm. (the only weekday time I was available.) So I booked an appointment, and began seeing her weekly for the next... well to be honest, I don't really remember how long I saw her. It might have been a year, it might have only been six months. We started easily, talking about what my world was like - with me telling her about some basic information - my job, my family, where I lived, my friendships, then moved on to talk about eating. But it turns out that my eating disorder was really just the way I coped with anxiety... and I had a lot of anxiety. So we talked about that. I cried, I laughed, I had profound realizations.  

Toward the end of our weekly sessions, I asked, "How do I know when I'm done?" She answered, "Well, you don't ever have to be 'done'. Maybe you'll want to change to every 4-6 weeks. Or maybe you'll feel like you don't have anything else you need to talk about with me. But you can always call me and come back in."

And so I do. I've seen her a couple of times over the past few years to talk about things when I start to feel overwhelmed and find that I don't have resources to handle it on my own. I saw her this last week. I had a list of things I wanted to talk to her about, and we covered them in the first half hour. 

The thing is, we all have stuff that we can't handle. And sometimes, our people who love us also don't know how to help us handle it. And for me, that's where seeing a psychologist or psychiatrist or social worker can help. And there's no shame in it. Life is beautiful and life is hard. 

I want to say one more thing - after I started to set up these supports - the woman who had also experienced it and meeting regularly with one of the people I first initially emailed, I also got real with my friends. Caleb and I weren't dating yet, but I called him up and told him about it. I told several other friends as well. And naming it and telling people... it helped. It made it feel less scary and less shameful. It let all those people who cared about me ask questions that were actually helpful. Culturally, I'll always need to be practicing and re-learning healthy, balanced eating, because we get a lot of mixed messages about it. But I will also ever advocate for counseling if you get too far off track.