The news of the pregnancy of my first son came on the heels
of four years of infertility and one of the darkest seasons of my life. I
recently quit my job and spent five months in the hospital watching my baby
brother die.
The life growing inside me was not only a miracle, it was a
personal battle cry to rise up and truly live again. It was the promise that
joy and laughter would visit again.
In preparation for the birth, I watched documentaries on
home births and read every article and book I could get my hands on. I was
convinced that my body was “made to do this.” I chose to use the local birthing
center, with no drugs and no interventions. The birthing center was tucked deep
in the forest on an island between beautiful gardens and tall protective Fir trees.
I was excited for the birth and even looked forward to the pain. If I could
endure the emotional pain of losing my brother, surely I could withstand the
physical pain of childbirth.
This was my chance to punch pain in the face after it had
nearly destroyed me.
I imagined my brother’s little namesake, Colton, would arrive just before daybreak as
my favorite Josh Garrels song beckoned him in. He would quietly emerge up
through the warm bathwater and my only pain medication would come from my
strength within.
Sometimes expectations can break our heart. They can leave
us feeling like we are standing at the alter naked and alone. Bewildered and
confused. Defeated and beat down. Starting over at square one.
After seven hours of pushing, after hundreds of contractions
and the midwife saying, “that’s the push…he’s almost here,” after realizing
that the metallic taste in my mouth was actually blood from the broken blood
vessels in my face, after trying every position and accessing every ounce of
strength I had, after vomiting hundreds of times from pain, and after asking my
husband, “why am I not dead yet?” I finally surrendered. I begged to be put out
of my misery.
The midwife instructed me to get in the back of my Mom’s
Jeep which began the longest ride of my life. I was gripping the back seat,
facing backwards with and IV falling out of my arm. I was screaming at an
octave that would terrify an exorcist. Five minutes after arriving at the
hospital, my son was literally sucked out of me. The relief that this tiny
human was finally outside my body was indescribable. I truly believed that he
wasn’t coming out or I would die trying.
After arriving home, I found myself alone all day with a
helpless being while dealing with so many unresolved issued around his birth. I
felt shame that my body could not do what it was “made to do.” I felt
abandonment from the care I received with no follow up or post natal support. I
was dealing with trauma from the duration and intensity of the pain I endured.
I felt disappointment that my birth story turned into a nightmare. Sleep
deprivation, isolation, and post partum depression would be my battle for the
next year.
The minute my son turned one, the depression started to lift
and I found out I was pregnant again with my second son. While we were
indescribably thankful and excited, the dread and terror of giving birth again
became immobilizing. Every month that passed, the fear grew. This time around,
I chose a hospital birth in the city. I chose to be induced and I chose to have
an epidural. I took every medical precaution and monitored by body obsessively.
We arrived at the hospital late at night and I went into
labor within 10 minutes of being induced. The contractions became intense, too
intense in fact. I began to have flashbacks and started to panic. I made a pact
with myself that I had nothing to prove this time, I only owed myself grace and
healing. When the pain became unbearable, the Anesthesiologist arrived. As the
pain left my body, my emotional strength began to rise up. Without the
distraction of suffering I could focus on the beauty of bringing this life into
the world.
Right before Levi made his entrance, the hospital Midwife
told me that he “was almost here.” I began to sob. I had been told this before
and I knew it meant that I had hours ahead of me. Through the tears, I pleaded
with her to tell me the truth. In her comforting Australian accent she
whispered, “He is almost here. I am telling you the truth. He is almost here.
You can do this.”
I gripped the bed and heaved tears into the pillow, “What if
I cannot do it, what if I cannot push him out?”
At this moment I found myself standing at a life altering
crossroad. When we feel that we have failed at something in the past and cannot
imagine we are capable of succeeding at it again…that is the moment where
opportunity for healing meets action.
In that moment, I did not believe that I was capable of
bringing Levi into the world but I made the choice to trust her. I made the
choice to throw myself off that cliff in the expectation that she would catch
me on the way down.
Suddenly, I heard my husband’s voice, “He’s here! He’s here!
He’s here!” As I reached out to hold Levi, somehow I felt whole again. In fact,
not even a detective with the keenest eye would be able to see that I was in pieces
before. As I reached out to my baby I kept saying, “I did it, I did it.” I was
overwhelmed that I actually did something I absolutely did not believe that I
could.
My second birth healed me.
