You look tired. You really look burnt out. You have bags under your eyes and you look stressed. I think it just hit you. In the last twenty-four hours it dawned on you that you have some things you need to work through. For a long time you have shunned the idea of therapy because you were burnt out on it from doing too much in your youth, but the fact is that you need it, Molly. You look like hell warmed over.
You've always believed that you can read happiness on people's faces. For the most part, that's true. But lately you have been a wreck of concealed issues, glossed over truths, and inner pain. Yes, inner pain. True, burning, seething inner pain. The kind that gives you bags and makes you feel saggy. The kind that ties your stomach in knots and makes you feel like you're going to throw up.
I can't just stand aside and watch you crash and burn. I can't just stand aside and pretend that your skin doesn't look bad and your face doesn't look tight. I also can't pretend that it's temporary and going to pass. I can't pretend that the pain and issues that are written all over you haven't been there for years. I can no longer pretend that Zoloft is working and working well. You need more. You deserve more.
You're twenty-five. You're too young to wear the weight of the world on your shoulders. You should be standing upright and standing strong. You should be happy and you should be enjoying your family. Instead, your hair is dull and you are willing yourself through the days. You can only smile if you force it and your laugh isn't genuine anymore. Being eaten up from in the inside out isn't a good look for you.
Get your ass out of bed. Take care of those kids. Love that husband. Finish that degree. Make an important phone call or two. Take the steps to get yourself back. Take the steps that will lead you back to mornings when you wake up rosy and glowing. Now is your time. Get yourself back. I want to recognize you in the mirror again, soon.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
To My Reflection.
You have been a trigger for both pride and disgust, sometimes unanimously.
I have coated you in thick foundations and colored shadows. I have used scalding heat to straighten what was made to be curly and bottles of chemicals to darken or lighten what was meant to be a sort of medium brown. I have spent large amounts of money on creams and soaps made to make skin seem young forever and without blemish. I use wax to forcefully remove little eyebrow hairs gone astray. I paint your lips in colors brighter and more eye catching than the color of flesh. I puncture you with holes and fill them with silver posted jewelry that makes people ask silly questions like, "Did that hurt?"
I have starved you, stuffed you and purged you. Sometimes all in the same day. I have admired you in fleeting moments and cursed you more times than I can count. I have stood naked in front of mirrors pulling skin one way or another in attempt to smooth out stretch marks and skin that hangs from housing babies. I have lifted my breasts and held them in a position higher than where they hang naturally to create some illusion of what I imagine is "normal" for breasts. I have stared at my thighs and my backside- the bumps and width of both and resigned myself to being forever thick in those areas. I have covered most of what is visible when clothed with bright colors, pictures and words representing times past and present. Some of it I love, some of it I wish I had thought more about before committing. In the worst of times, many moons ago, I have intentionally hurt you. Carved into flesh as some sort of self punishment.
My nails are bitten into the quick. My face is almost always broken out in some sense of the word. I am incapable of accomplishing a weight less than 150lbs. Yet still You say, I am "fearfully and wonderfully made". Slowly...slowly slowly slowly, but surely, I am learning to believe You.
I have coated you in thick foundations and colored shadows. I have used scalding heat to straighten what was made to be curly and bottles of chemicals to darken or lighten what was meant to be a sort of medium brown. I have spent large amounts of money on creams and soaps made to make skin seem young forever and without blemish. I use wax to forcefully remove little eyebrow hairs gone astray. I paint your lips in colors brighter and more eye catching than the color of flesh. I puncture you with holes and fill them with silver posted jewelry that makes people ask silly questions like, "Did that hurt?"
I have starved you, stuffed you and purged you. Sometimes all in the same day. I have admired you in fleeting moments and cursed you more times than I can count. I have stood naked in front of mirrors pulling skin one way or another in attempt to smooth out stretch marks and skin that hangs from housing babies. I have lifted my breasts and held them in a position higher than where they hang naturally to create some illusion of what I imagine is "normal" for breasts. I have stared at my thighs and my backside- the bumps and width of both and resigned myself to being forever thick in those areas. I have covered most of what is visible when clothed with bright colors, pictures and words representing times past and present. Some of it I love, some of it I wish I had thought more about before committing. In the worst of times, many moons ago, I have intentionally hurt you. Carved into flesh as some sort of self punishment.
My nails are bitten into the quick. My face is almost always broken out in some sense of the word. I am incapable of accomplishing a weight less than 150lbs. Yet still You say, I am "fearfully and wonderfully made". Slowly...slowly slowly slowly, but surely, I am learning to believe You.
Sunday, September 25, 2011
A Letter to My Reflection
My hair is long and untended, it reaches down my back. It is weathered, the ends frayed and broken. It is the result of decades of abuse. It has been dyed black and blue and red and brown and has been countlessly bleached into submission. It has been curled and flat ironed and twisted into buns and braids and swept back into a daily ponytail and tucked behind my ears and pulled by baby hands.
My forehead revealed the first lines. They speak of marital strife and making ends meet and of sick children. The laugh lines came next, creases around my mouth after years of hysterical, maniacal laughter. The crow's feet followed, revealing my age.
My neck is long and elegant. My shoulders are graceful, even as they curl forward from my consistent lack of attention to posture. My biceps are strong, toned from years of picking up sturdy little boys and carrying groceries. The hair on my arms is just peach fuzz, so blonde it's almost white.
My hands show the most wear. They are almost unrecognizable now, cracked and dry from laundry and dishes. The rest of my skin is soft and fair, a trait I carry over from my girlhood.
My breasts look swollen, slung low from pregnancy and nursing. The skin on my chest has been stretched so tight and thin that I can see the bright blue veins underneath the surface, pumping thick, rich blood.
My belly is round, heavy, soft like bread dough that has been pulled and kneaded. My babies lived here.
Stretch marks begin just under my ribs. They encircle my waist, run wild down into the space between my legs. They are shiny now, pearl-like, shimmery.
My legs are thick and powerful. They have carried the weight of pregnancy. They have climbed stairs, paced hallways and squatted to allow the baby's head to break through.
This body, it has never failed me. It has rewarded me, four times, with new life, healthy and pure.
I cannot hate a body that has served me well.
There is nothing here to regret.
Rae
My forehead revealed the first lines. They speak of marital strife and making ends meet and of sick children. The laugh lines came next, creases around my mouth after years of hysterical, maniacal laughter. The crow's feet followed, revealing my age.
My neck is long and elegant. My shoulders are graceful, even as they curl forward from my consistent lack of attention to posture. My biceps are strong, toned from years of picking up sturdy little boys and carrying groceries. The hair on my arms is just peach fuzz, so blonde it's almost white.
My hands show the most wear. They are almost unrecognizable now, cracked and dry from laundry and dishes. The rest of my skin is soft and fair, a trait I carry over from my girlhood.
My breasts look swollen, slung low from pregnancy and nursing. The skin on my chest has been stretched so tight and thin that I can see the bright blue veins underneath the surface, pumping thick, rich blood.
My belly is round, heavy, soft like bread dough that has been pulled and kneaded. My babies lived here.
Stretch marks begin just under my ribs. They encircle my waist, run wild down into the space between my legs. They are shiny now, pearl-like, shimmery.
My legs are thick and powerful. They have carried the weight of pregnancy. They have climbed stairs, paced hallways and squatted to allow the baby's head to break through.
This body, it has never failed me. It has rewarded me, four times, with new life, healthy and pure.
I cannot hate a body that has served me well.
There is nothing here to regret.
Rae
Dear Mom and Dad,
When I think back to my earliest memories, this is what I see: A fine tooth comb with a sharp, pointed end, and Mom combing my bangs into absolute perfection, before church, or before a photograph. I see long hair, down my back and my screaming wails as she would untangle all of the knots. I see dresses and nightgowns and culottes and my eyes wandering to the girls in jeans on horseback. I see Mom licking her thumb and dabbing the corners of my mouth. I see constant evenings with strangers, our home or theirs and the warnings beforehand that I should be on my best behavior. I see the first grade, when I'd get A's and finish my work before everyone else. They'd just give me extra work. I see certificates and report cards and awards. I memorized Bible verses and the books of the Bible and I recited them with precision. It never felt like it was enough. I see me in the 2nd grade, homeschooled, sitting at the dining room table, trying to perfectly form each letter, each word, each sentence. I was a typical firstborn, with an innate desire to succeed, but I was something else as well. I was a pastor's daughter. Throughout my childhood and adolescence, I felt, acutely, that all eyes were on me. All of the time. I felt an entire congregation watching every move I made, judging me, clucking their tongues, whispering amongst each other. It might not have been that way, but this is the way it felt. Being a born introvert, the spotlight terrified me. I learned to shake hands and to smile politely and address my elders as "sir" and "ma'am." I spent years and years trying to get everything right--because I wanted to be perfect, but also because I wanted to make you proud. At the same time, I saw myself alienated from the rest of the world. I saw everyone outside of church regard me as a weirdo. In the early days there was no Halloween costumes, no pants, no secular music, no rated PG movies. I felt as if I resided in between two worlds, neither of which completely accepted me.
With time, I began to see the truth of the situation: I would never be perfect. I could be perfect sometimes, but eventually, I would fail. Someone would disapprove. Someone would be disappointed. I felt faulty, broken, stupid, incapable. Now that I'm an adult, I realize that it is truly impossible to achieve perfection. You can never please everyone. But back then, I just saw myself as a complete failure. I felt voices inside of my head, scolding me. "You should have done this. You could have done that. You shouldn't have done this. You could have done that instead." It was exhausting and it was neverending. Add religion on top of this and the whole thing just gets worse and worse. Religion gives you a different set of voices. "You are a sinner. You will always be a sinner. No matter how hard you try, you will sin and you will do it again and again. God knows that you are going to sin before the thought even crosses your mind. He knows every mistake you'll ever make in your entire life. He expects every misstep. There is nothing you can do to change that situation." It felt bleak and hopeless. Nothing I did was ever going to be good enough. And so, during my adolescence, I stopped trying. If I couldn't be perfect, and I couldn't please everyone, I'd just go in the opposite direction. If everyone was just holding their breath, waiting for me to fail, I'd hurry up and get it over with.
I remember Dad telling me, "You have intentionally rejected everything that your mother and I believe or care about." And it was true, I had, but it wasn't just because I was trying to. I had always been a skeptical child. I remember asking Dad, "What do you mean that God has always been...that He has no beginning and no end?... How did Noah fit two animals of every species on a boat?... How do we know that our religion is the right one, when everyone else believes that THEIRS is the right one?" The truth of the matter is that I had never felt God, felt his presence, felt him working in my life. I had simply just stopped pretending that I had.
I rebelled against you and against Christianity and against most of the civilized world. To you, it was terrible and heartbreaking, but what you didn't see is that, behind the scenes, I was always keeping myself in check. You had given me a moral compass and had instilled a sense of responsibility. I never took things too far. I had not completely given up on myself, or my need to please you. I kept my grades just high enough. I chose to take Honors classes. I told my friends "no way." I followed the important rules. I stood up for others when no one else would. It was rare for me to flat out defy authority figures. Instead, what you saw, was a package of birth control in the bathroom. I had lost my virginity in a way that I didn't want, or expect, but afterwards, I had called up a friend with a car and made an appointment at Planned Parenthood and obtained a prescription just in case I ever found myself in a similar situation. I would be protected. In my mind, it was an enormous act of bravery and responsibility. In your mind, it was another sign that I was becoming someone you didn't want me to be. It wasn't the future you had planned for me.
What I know now, is that teenagers must reject their parents in order to find their own sense of identity. It is a normal phase of development and it is absolutely necessary. Everything must be rejected and discarded in order for rebuilding to occur. You took it all personally, and you didn't need to. It wasn't all about you. I loved you, which should have been all that mattered, but I needed to find my own way in the world. There were things I believed that opposed your own beliefs, but it did not happen that way because I wanted to hurt you. It just happened that way because I am who I am and I believe what I believe. Just like you do.
Dad got sick and he was hospitalized and you told me it was because of the enormous amount of stress he was under, worrying about me. I don't know why you told me that. I wonder if you thought that guilt would instantly change me into a different person--a person who tried harder to shape up and be who you needed me to be.
Later, when I got pregnant at eighteen, you told me that Dad could get kicked off of the elder board. I don't know why you told me that, as if there was a way that I could go back in time and fix it. My guilt intensified and it weighed heavily on me, all of the time.
Now that I'm a parent, I realize that no matter how hard I try, I have made mistakes and I have done things and said things to my children that I regret. I have done the best that I can, but there will inevitably be things that I wish I could go back and change. I know, without a doubt, that you were doing the best that you could. All that really matters, in the end, is that we love our children. And I never once questioned your love.
I wonder sometimes, what it feels like to believe that your child is going to Hell. I can't even begin to imagine it. It is unfathomable. It must be terrifying and consuming. This is the thought I keep in my head when I don't allow you into my life as fully as I want you to be. I have friends who say, "My mother is my best friend. I tell her everything." My mother is my best friend, but even in my thirties, I carefully choose what I reveal to you. I have to. I feel a responsibility to protect you from aspects of my life because I still don't want you to worry. I don't want you to believe that I've gone completely astray, that I am a wreckage, a sinner, a person who is doomed to an eternity of torture and pain.
And so, although I know you will love me unconditionally, no matter what I say or do or what I believe in or who I am, you have been shielded from the innerworkings of my life simply because I love you back. I wish I could tell you everything, but I believe that it will not strengthen our relationship.
You should know that I am okay. I am a responsible adult with morals, even though some of those morals are vastly different than yours. I try to always make decisions that are wise. I am kind and my heart is big and I am happy. And I have you to thank for all of that.
Lots of love,
Rae
With time, I began to see the truth of the situation: I would never be perfect. I could be perfect sometimes, but eventually, I would fail. Someone would disapprove. Someone would be disappointed. I felt faulty, broken, stupid, incapable. Now that I'm an adult, I realize that it is truly impossible to achieve perfection. You can never please everyone. But back then, I just saw myself as a complete failure. I felt voices inside of my head, scolding me. "You should have done this. You could have done that. You shouldn't have done this. You could have done that instead." It was exhausting and it was neverending. Add religion on top of this and the whole thing just gets worse and worse. Religion gives you a different set of voices. "You are a sinner. You will always be a sinner. No matter how hard you try, you will sin and you will do it again and again. God knows that you are going to sin before the thought even crosses your mind. He knows every mistake you'll ever make in your entire life. He expects every misstep. There is nothing you can do to change that situation." It felt bleak and hopeless. Nothing I did was ever going to be good enough. And so, during my adolescence, I stopped trying. If I couldn't be perfect, and I couldn't please everyone, I'd just go in the opposite direction. If everyone was just holding their breath, waiting for me to fail, I'd hurry up and get it over with.
I remember Dad telling me, "You have intentionally rejected everything that your mother and I believe or care about." And it was true, I had, but it wasn't just because I was trying to. I had always been a skeptical child. I remember asking Dad, "What do you mean that God has always been...that He has no beginning and no end?... How did Noah fit two animals of every species on a boat?... How do we know that our religion is the right one, when everyone else believes that THEIRS is the right one?" The truth of the matter is that I had never felt God, felt his presence, felt him working in my life. I had simply just stopped pretending that I had.
I rebelled against you and against Christianity and against most of the civilized world. To you, it was terrible and heartbreaking, but what you didn't see is that, behind the scenes, I was always keeping myself in check. You had given me a moral compass and had instilled a sense of responsibility. I never took things too far. I had not completely given up on myself, or my need to please you. I kept my grades just high enough. I chose to take Honors classes. I told my friends "no way." I followed the important rules. I stood up for others when no one else would. It was rare for me to flat out defy authority figures. Instead, what you saw, was a package of birth control in the bathroom. I had lost my virginity in a way that I didn't want, or expect, but afterwards, I had called up a friend with a car and made an appointment at Planned Parenthood and obtained a prescription just in case I ever found myself in a similar situation. I would be protected. In my mind, it was an enormous act of bravery and responsibility. In your mind, it was another sign that I was becoming someone you didn't want me to be. It wasn't the future you had planned for me.
What I know now, is that teenagers must reject their parents in order to find their own sense of identity. It is a normal phase of development and it is absolutely necessary. Everything must be rejected and discarded in order for rebuilding to occur. You took it all personally, and you didn't need to. It wasn't all about you. I loved you, which should have been all that mattered, but I needed to find my own way in the world. There were things I believed that opposed your own beliefs, but it did not happen that way because I wanted to hurt you. It just happened that way because I am who I am and I believe what I believe. Just like you do.
Dad got sick and he was hospitalized and you told me it was because of the enormous amount of stress he was under, worrying about me. I don't know why you told me that. I wonder if you thought that guilt would instantly change me into a different person--a person who tried harder to shape up and be who you needed me to be.
Later, when I got pregnant at eighteen, you told me that Dad could get kicked off of the elder board. I don't know why you told me that, as if there was a way that I could go back in time and fix it. My guilt intensified and it weighed heavily on me, all of the time.
Now that I'm a parent, I realize that no matter how hard I try, I have made mistakes and I have done things and said things to my children that I regret. I have done the best that I can, but there will inevitably be things that I wish I could go back and change. I know, without a doubt, that you were doing the best that you could. All that really matters, in the end, is that we love our children. And I never once questioned your love.
I wonder sometimes, what it feels like to believe that your child is going to Hell. I can't even begin to imagine it. It is unfathomable. It must be terrifying and consuming. This is the thought I keep in my head when I don't allow you into my life as fully as I want you to be. I have friends who say, "My mother is my best friend. I tell her everything." My mother is my best friend, but even in my thirties, I carefully choose what I reveal to you. I have to. I feel a responsibility to protect you from aspects of my life because I still don't want you to worry. I don't want you to believe that I've gone completely astray, that I am a wreckage, a sinner, a person who is doomed to an eternity of torture and pain.
And so, although I know you will love me unconditionally, no matter what I say or do or what I believe in or who I am, you have been shielded from the innerworkings of my life simply because I love you back. I wish I could tell you everything, but I believe that it will not strengthen our relationship.
You should know that I am okay. I am a responsible adult with morals, even though some of those morals are vastly different than yours. I try to always make decisions that are wise. I am kind and my heart is big and I am happy. And I have you to thank for all of that.
Lots of love,
Rae
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Dear Ann,
After Tristan's birth, in which I was drugged and disconnected from the entire experience, I sat in my hospital room and waited to be discharged. It took hours and hours longer than it should have. I was required to take an Infant Care class before I could leave, even though I knew exactly how to take care of a newborn. I was not allowed to sleep with my baby in my hospital bed. I was not allowed to carry him down the hallway. He was to stay in his isolette. Every move I made was monitored. I was enraged. I swore, from that day forward, that I would never have another baby in a hospital. At that time, that was all it was about. Anger that I wasn't trusted with my own child. And later, anger that postpartum depression had destroyed the bond I should have had with Tristan--all of this I vaguely blamed on the hospital and my caretakers and their insistence that they knew what was best for me.
As the years went by, after examining my first two hospital births, my desire to birth at home was due to my belief that my medicated hospital births sabotaged my ability to breastfeed. The sleepy babies, the lazy latches, the jaundice--it all seemed interconnected and I knew that the next time, I was going to nurse my baby.
And so, five years after Tristan was born, I became pregnant. Initially, I saw my obstetrician. I googled "find a homebirth midwife" and came up with your name. Brent and I met with you, for a free, one hour consultation in your living room. I came armed with pages of questions and you answered each and every one with confident assurance. All of my fears regarding the safety of homebirth were eased. I knew I was in the right place. I went back to my OB/GYN and told her that I was discontinuing my care with her and she was disappointed. "Why??" she asked. I said, "I have to wait in the waiting room to see you, sometimes up to an hour. When I finally get into the exam room, I get five minutes with you. You weren't even there to deliver my last two babies. I want more personalized care." She told me that she was sorry, that she was pressured by her group to take more patients than she could handle. I wondered how many patients she cared for. You intentionally took only a handful a month.
During my pregnancy with Rylan, I was an information sponge. Every appointment with you was in the privacy of your home. You had a library full of books on natural birth and various other related topics. I checked out books from you every time and I read them from cover to cover. You educated me. It was a whole new world. My mind was opening up, swallowing ideas that had never occurred to me before.
Like the last two pregnancies, I was riddled with excruciating pelvic pain. You advised me to see a chiropractor and as soon as the adjustments began, I experienced very little discomfort. I couldn't believe that I went through my last two pregnancies with an obstetrician who told me "it's just a symptom of pregnancy" and brushed it off without any recommendations or suggestions. You gave me Vitamin B injections for morning sickness that eliminated my nausea for a week at a time. You gave me natural prenatal vitamins and fish oil capsules and papaya enzyme for heartburn and homeopathic remedies that immediately eased every discomfort I experienced. You raised me up, you educated me.
Towards the end of my pregnancy, around 37 weeks, I began something I now know as prodromal labor. I had contractions on and off for weeks. They weren't producing a baby and I was DONE with the pregnancy. I was frustrated and emotionally spent. I took it out on you. "If I was having a hospital birth, I would have arrived at the hospital having contractions and they would have admitted me and given me Pitocin and I WOULD HAVE HAD A BABY BY NOW!!!" I was angry at you and I was angry at myself for choosing homebirth. I became a crazy person. I yelled and sobbed and you sat calmly and empathized with me and assured me that my baby would come when he was ready to come and explained all of the reasons why my patience was important. I told you that if any point during the labor, I asked for an epidural, you were to transport me immediately to the hospital. You smiled gently and said "no problem", but assured me that it wouldn't be necessary and that you knew I could do this.
Of course, the big day came and my water broke. Contractions did not begin for two and a half hours. You were not concerned. I knew then, that if I had been at the hospital, I would have already have been connected to an IV drip, confined to bed, and I most likely would have been demanding an epidural from the pain of Pitocin induced contractions.
When the contractions finally began, you showed up at my house and brought more supplies and equipment than I ever expected. You set everything up: oxygen tanks and an IV and medications for every possible emergency and chux pads and suturing supplies and an infant scale and a handheld doppler and various other items.
Unexpectedly, my contractions slowed and stopped completely, and I experienced what I now know to be my trademark "white coat syndrome." The reason why my previous labors had been augmented and hurried up--any professional presence stops my body from progressing. You recognized this immediately and told me that you were going to go out to get something to eat and I should call you if anything changed. Later, you told me that you had fibbed. You didn't need to eat. You only left in order to give me space to do my thing. As the headlights of your Jeep were backing out of my driveway, the contractions re-appeared and ramped up with intensity and frequency. We called you back to the house and you stayed out of my way, busying yourself with preparations while occasionally monitoring the baby's heartrate and my own vital signs. I labored in my living room while watching Desperate Housewives, in the bathroom on the toilet while chatting it up with my husband, in my bedroom on a birthing ball listening to Norah Jones on the stereo. I was free to eat and drink whatever I wanted and I was free to wear my own clothes in the comfort of my own home environment.
You only checked me internally once, and that was with my permission.
When transition hit, and I started vomiting uncontrollably, you clapped your hands and excitedly said, "Good! Throwing up equals ten good contractions!" I thought back to my hospital births, when the pink basin had been set at my chin and I was terrified and sick and the nurses clucked their tongues and made me worry. I tried to lay down and it was horrific and I wondered how or why I birthed on my back for hours at a time in those hospital labor rooms. I stood up and felt my baby drop into my pelvis and I yelled to you that he was coming. You came to my side, put your hand on my shoulder and you checked my cervix. "Yep, there's a baby right there!" you remarked, gleefully. You asked me where I'd like to go and in what position and I felt like the only thing I could do was collapse onto the bed, sideways. This put you between my bed and the wall. It was a difficult position for you, but you did not mention it. My comfort was the most important.
No one told me when to push, or how to push. No one was yelling "1...2...3!" This time, there was no holding my breath or bruising the sockets of my teeth or popping blood vessels in my eyes. I grunted and was encouraged to push in whatever way my body told me to. You softly encouraged me every step of the way and explained to me what was happening and that it was all happening exactly as it should.
My baby slid out of my body and you placed him on my chest. He stayed there for a long time, as long as I wanted. You placed towels, warm from the dryer on his little body and mine. You did not touch him or take him until I asked you to. You did not rub him furiously or suction him and he did not shiver or cry. He was quiet and alert and staring up at us in wonder. You did not instruct us to cut the cord until it had stopped pulsating completely and we were ready to. You weighed him and quickly checked him over on my bed while I sat there, watching. You handed him back and I diapered him and dressed him and swaddled him and nursed him. You cleaned up all of the supplies, and the mess, and tidied up my house. And then, you tucked me, and my baby, and my husband into our bed and you sat down at my feet and read me a poem. I cried, and you cried, and you kissed my cheek and told me how proud you were of me. You turned off the light and you quietly left. We all slept wonderfully, and woke in the morning in our own bed, in our own home, to life resuming peacefully and without interruption.
My birth was not extraordinary. It was normal. It was allowed to unfold on its own, carefully and tenderly, with you simply nudging me towards trust and faith in my own body. You instilled confidence in me and the experience changed me not only as a mother, but as a woman. You handed me what would eventually become my life's passion--for birth... normal birth. You did not just give me this gift--you have given it to hundreds and hundreds of women over the years and you continue to do it because it is also your passion. You are an angel in disguise, a woman who has become an extended member of our family, even though we don't keep in touch anymore. I will never, ever forget the many kindnesses you showed me and the way your presence in my life shaped the person I have become.
With many thanks and lots of love,
Rae
As the years went by, after examining my first two hospital births, my desire to birth at home was due to my belief that my medicated hospital births sabotaged my ability to breastfeed. The sleepy babies, the lazy latches, the jaundice--it all seemed interconnected and I knew that the next time, I was going to nurse my baby.
And so, five years after Tristan was born, I became pregnant. Initially, I saw my obstetrician. I googled "find a homebirth midwife" and came up with your name. Brent and I met with you, for a free, one hour consultation in your living room. I came armed with pages of questions and you answered each and every one with confident assurance. All of my fears regarding the safety of homebirth were eased. I knew I was in the right place. I went back to my OB/GYN and told her that I was discontinuing my care with her and she was disappointed. "Why??" she asked. I said, "I have to wait in the waiting room to see you, sometimes up to an hour. When I finally get into the exam room, I get five minutes with you. You weren't even there to deliver my last two babies. I want more personalized care." She told me that she was sorry, that she was pressured by her group to take more patients than she could handle. I wondered how many patients she cared for. You intentionally took only a handful a month.
During my pregnancy with Rylan, I was an information sponge. Every appointment with you was in the privacy of your home. You had a library full of books on natural birth and various other related topics. I checked out books from you every time and I read them from cover to cover. You educated me. It was a whole new world. My mind was opening up, swallowing ideas that had never occurred to me before.
Like the last two pregnancies, I was riddled with excruciating pelvic pain. You advised me to see a chiropractor and as soon as the adjustments began, I experienced very little discomfort. I couldn't believe that I went through my last two pregnancies with an obstetrician who told me "it's just a symptom of pregnancy" and brushed it off without any recommendations or suggestions. You gave me Vitamin B injections for morning sickness that eliminated my nausea for a week at a time. You gave me natural prenatal vitamins and fish oil capsules and papaya enzyme for heartburn and homeopathic remedies that immediately eased every discomfort I experienced. You raised me up, you educated me.
Towards the end of my pregnancy, around 37 weeks, I began something I now know as prodromal labor. I had contractions on and off for weeks. They weren't producing a baby and I was DONE with the pregnancy. I was frustrated and emotionally spent. I took it out on you. "If I was having a hospital birth, I would have arrived at the hospital having contractions and they would have admitted me and given me Pitocin and I WOULD HAVE HAD A BABY BY NOW!!!" I was angry at you and I was angry at myself for choosing homebirth. I became a crazy person. I yelled and sobbed and you sat calmly and empathized with me and assured me that my baby would come when he was ready to come and explained all of the reasons why my patience was important. I told you that if any point during the labor, I asked for an epidural, you were to transport me immediately to the hospital. You smiled gently and said "no problem", but assured me that it wouldn't be necessary and that you knew I could do this.
Of course, the big day came and my water broke. Contractions did not begin for two and a half hours. You were not concerned. I knew then, that if I had been at the hospital, I would have already have been connected to an IV drip, confined to bed, and I most likely would have been demanding an epidural from the pain of Pitocin induced contractions.
When the contractions finally began, you showed up at my house and brought more supplies and equipment than I ever expected. You set everything up: oxygen tanks and an IV and medications for every possible emergency and chux pads and suturing supplies and an infant scale and a handheld doppler and various other items.
Unexpectedly, my contractions slowed and stopped completely, and I experienced what I now know to be my trademark "white coat syndrome." The reason why my previous labors had been augmented and hurried up--any professional presence stops my body from progressing. You recognized this immediately and told me that you were going to go out to get something to eat and I should call you if anything changed. Later, you told me that you had fibbed. You didn't need to eat. You only left in order to give me space to do my thing. As the headlights of your Jeep were backing out of my driveway, the contractions re-appeared and ramped up with intensity and frequency. We called you back to the house and you stayed out of my way, busying yourself with preparations while occasionally monitoring the baby's heartrate and my own vital signs. I labored in my living room while watching Desperate Housewives, in the bathroom on the toilet while chatting it up with my husband, in my bedroom on a birthing ball listening to Norah Jones on the stereo. I was free to eat and drink whatever I wanted and I was free to wear my own clothes in the comfort of my own home environment.
You only checked me internally once, and that was with my permission.
When transition hit, and I started vomiting uncontrollably, you clapped your hands and excitedly said, "Good! Throwing up equals ten good contractions!" I thought back to my hospital births, when the pink basin had been set at my chin and I was terrified and sick and the nurses clucked their tongues and made me worry. I tried to lay down and it was horrific and I wondered how or why I birthed on my back for hours at a time in those hospital labor rooms. I stood up and felt my baby drop into my pelvis and I yelled to you that he was coming. You came to my side, put your hand on my shoulder and you checked my cervix. "Yep, there's a baby right there!" you remarked, gleefully. You asked me where I'd like to go and in what position and I felt like the only thing I could do was collapse onto the bed, sideways. This put you between my bed and the wall. It was a difficult position for you, but you did not mention it. My comfort was the most important.
No one told me when to push, or how to push. No one was yelling "1...2...3!" This time, there was no holding my breath or bruising the sockets of my teeth or popping blood vessels in my eyes. I grunted and was encouraged to push in whatever way my body told me to. You softly encouraged me every step of the way and explained to me what was happening and that it was all happening exactly as it should.
My baby slid out of my body and you placed him on my chest. He stayed there for a long time, as long as I wanted. You placed towels, warm from the dryer on his little body and mine. You did not touch him or take him until I asked you to. You did not rub him furiously or suction him and he did not shiver or cry. He was quiet and alert and staring up at us in wonder. You did not instruct us to cut the cord until it had stopped pulsating completely and we were ready to. You weighed him and quickly checked him over on my bed while I sat there, watching. You handed him back and I diapered him and dressed him and swaddled him and nursed him. You cleaned up all of the supplies, and the mess, and tidied up my house. And then, you tucked me, and my baby, and my husband into our bed and you sat down at my feet and read me a poem. I cried, and you cried, and you kissed my cheek and told me how proud you were of me. You turned off the light and you quietly left. We all slept wonderfully, and woke in the morning in our own bed, in our own home, to life resuming peacefully and without interruption.
My birth was not extraordinary. It was normal. It was allowed to unfold on its own, carefully and tenderly, with you simply nudging me towards trust and faith in my own body. You instilled confidence in me and the experience changed me not only as a mother, but as a woman. You handed me what would eventually become my life's passion--for birth... normal birth. You did not just give me this gift--you have given it to hundreds and hundreds of women over the years and you continue to do it because it is also your passion. You are an angel in disguise, a woman who has become an extended member of our family, even though we don't keep in touch anymore. I will never, ever forget the many kindnesses you showed me and the way your presence in my life shaped the person I have become.
With many thanks and lots of love,
Rae
Friday, September 23, 2011
Shirlee.
It is hard to believe it has almost been a year since I spent every Tuesday morning sitting on an overstuffed brown leather sofa in the the most beautiful house on this island. I remember the first time we met at your office in Coupville. You told me what I would go through with you would be painful and at times unbearable. I remember thinking that sounded so silly, because I was so separated from all this "stuff" we would be dealing with. I remember telling you that I was not going to tell my family a thing. Looking back it seems ridiculous that I would say such a thing, but you were so gracious. You told me everything was up to me and that you understood and respected any decision I made.
The first time or two we met seemed harmless enough. I know it wasn't easy, but it didn't seem as treacherous as you had warned it may be. It quickly became as such. You picked the perfect material for us to work through, even though sometimes I felt like if I read another word out of that book I would simply die. No matter how hard the reading was on my own at home, every time I sat down with you to discuss it, I felt safe. You would sit and listen quietly, nod and point things out that I may have missed. If I was crying too terribly you would sit next to me and just hold me. You reminded me how much God loved me, no matter what. You reminded me that I mattered. You were key in helping me believe that I was more than some mediocre work. You helped me learn to believe that I am a masterpiece. You gently, gracefully and lovingly guided me through the hardest thing I have ever done.
You are an angel Shirlee. You are the softest most gracious and merciful person I have ever met and I feel so blessed to know you. You have such a high calling on your life and you are fulfilling it. You are walking with others through the most painful experiences of their lives, and you feel the pain too. You are beautiful and astounding and I hope that I can radiate even a fraction of the love that you radiate at some point in my lifetime.
Thank you for everything, you changed my life.
Love,
Brooks
The first time or two we met seemed harmless enough. I know it wasn't easy, but it didn't seem as treacherous as you had warned it may be. It quickly became as such. You picked the perfect material for us to work through, even though sometimes I felt like if I read another word out of that book I would simply die. No matter how hard the reading was on my own at home, every time I sat down with you to discuss it, I felt safe. You would sit and listen quietly, nod and point things out that I may have missed. If I was crying too terribly you would sit next to me and just hold me. You reminded me how much God loved me, no matter what. You reminded me that I mattered. You were key in helping me believe that I was more than some mediocre work. You helped me learn to believe that I am a masterpiece. You gently, gracefully and lovingly guided me through the hardest thing I have ever done.
You are an angel Shirlee. You are the softest most gracious and merciful person I have ever met and I feel so blessed to know you. You have such a high calling on your life and you are fulfilling it. You are walking with others through the most painful experiences of their lives, and you feel the pain too. You are beautiful and astounding and I hope that I can radiate even a fraction of the love that you radiate at some point in my lifetime.
Thank you for everything, you changed my life.
Love,
Brooks
Mom.
Clearly I have known you more than a day. I am not sure I could write a letter to the nicest person I knew for only one day, mostly because I don't think that person exists for me. What I do know, is that you are the nicest person I know since forever.
You smile at and compliment everyone. You tell strangers how beautiful they are and how much you love their shirt or hairstyle. You are always polite to cashiers and waitresses. You have the unique ability to make everyone around you feel at home. You listen and listen and listen and remind everyone of how special they are, no matter how crazy or nonsensical they may be. Everyone loves you Mom. Everyone who comes in contact with you is made to feel beautiful and unique. This is such a gift.
I wish I had this ability the way you do. I try, but I am not nearly as good at it. I want to think everyone is special, but I don't- which means I cannot convey it. That is the best part about you- you don't just blow smoke up peoples....noses. You mean everything you say about them and to them with your whole heart. You are a lifter upper of persons.
I wish you could take this ability and apply it to yourself. I wish you could say nice things to yourself the way you say them to other people. I wish you looked in the mirror everyday and said, "Brenda, you are fantastic!" and mean it. It makes me sad that you are so wonderful at making others feel loved, but haven't yet figured out how to love yourself.
You are beautiful mom. You are funny and kind and thoughtful and loving. You are unique and on purpose. You are hands down the nicest person I have ever known. If there was one thing I wish I had, it would be kindness and love for others the way you have it. It's so much like Jesus.
To the moon,
Brooks
You smile at and compliment everyone. You tell strangers how beautiful they are and how much you love their shirt or hairstyle. You are always polite to cashiers and waitresses. You have the unique ability to make everyone around you feel at home. You listen and listen and listen and remind everyone of how special they are, no matter how crazy or nonsensical they may be. Everyone loves you Mom. Everyone who comes in contact with you is made to feel beautiful and unique. This is such a gift.
I wish I had this ability the way you do. I try, but I am not nearly as good at it. I want to think everyone is special, but I don't- which means I cannot convey it. That is the best part about you- you don't just blow smoke up peoples....noses. You mean everything you say about them and to them with your whole heart. You are a lifter upper of persons.
I wish you could take this ability and apply it to yourself. I wish you could say nice things to yourself the way you say them to other people. I wish you looked in the mirror everyday and said, "Brenda, you are fantastic!" and mean it. It makes me sad that you are so wonderful at making others feel loved, but haven't yet figured out how to love yourself.
You are beautiful mom. You are funny and kind and thoughtful and loving. You are unique and on purpose. You are hands down the nicest person I have ever known. If there was one thing I wish I had, it would be kindness and love for others the way you have it. It's so much like Jesus.
To the moon,
Brooks
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