Light and Momentary

"With Woman"

As my midwife was packing up after Pete's birth, she pulled an oxygen tank out from under the couch arm.  "I didn't see that!" I said, surprised that I had delivered three feet away without noticing it. "That's the idea," she said.  "We want it right at hand in case we need it, but out of sight otherwise."

It's a good emblem for midwifery care, I think -- the recognition that Pete might need help in a hurry coupled with the recognition that he'd probably be just fine, especially if I wasn't confronted with reminders of what might go wrong.

Back in September, Tiffany mentioned that she'd been satisfied with her family practitioner but would stick with midwives in the future. At the time I wondered why.  I had been so pleased with Joe's birth -- our family practitioner, Dr. Right, seemed to offer the best of both worlds.  If we needed to transfer to the hospital, he would be right there to run interference for us.  When my mother-in-law said, "I just feel better if the doctor's in the next room," I could say, "Actually, the doctor will be in the same room.  It will just be my living room."  During the birth he stayed out of the way, letting the process unfold on its own.  It was great.  But I wanted to tell you all a litte more about my midwife.

I've had a big increase in hits lately, which I am thinking is at least partly due to new readers rather than friends checking in 45 times a day because I am late answering their emails.  (Soon, I promise.  I'm having trouble staying caught up on both laundry and email.  I'm a little scared of what might happen if I let the dirty laundry gain momentum.) 

For those of you who are new and not motivated by my sparkling prose to tramp through the archives in search of the whole story, here's the recap:  miscarried in late May of '04; conceived again in late July despite my expectation that it would take a long time; felt many things including disloyalty to miscarried baby, unreadiness, wrenching uncertainty about pregnancy ending in a healthy baby, total inability to handle another loss, and buckets of guilt about all of the above; promptly turned a fetching shade of celadon and stayed that way, retching, until early October; found out as normal coloring returned that husband needed a new job; stressed and stressed and freaked; wailed and gnashed teeth when husband interviewed for a job two hours from the city; suddenly was suffused with serenity (at least briefly) about moving; spent six work weeks holding down the fort on my own in the city while my husband settled into his job here; found and purchased a house; moved in on the first day of my 36th week. 

I am tired just writing it all down.

I spent a lot of my pregnancy feeling ambivalent and vulnerable, saying, "I'm pregnant!" with the back of one hand pressed dramatically to my forehead.  As firmly as I believe in the sovereignty of God, I kept saying, "Lord, if you think I can handle this you are badly overestimating me."

At first we just didn't know what to do about the timing of the birth and the move.  Should I stay in the city with the kids until after the baby arrived?  Should we scramble to find prenatal care and a house here and get moved before the birth? Well, let me tell you:  if we hadn't scrambled, I would be so fried.  At the time, though, it was hard to know what was best.  One big question was answered when we found a CNM who could do a home birth in Gladlyville.

I left my first prenatal appointment with her saying, "I'm pregnant!"  But suddenly I was saying it with a much different tone of voice, one that said, "I am this baby's home, his refuge.  I am his whole world right now.  And no matter what my opinion might be on the timing of this pregnancy, I can still be glad for the chance to be his mother."  I found a good radio station and sang all the way home, beating a tattoo on the steering wheel.  I kept looking down at the speedometer and seeing that the needle had edged up past 80 again.  "If I get stopped," I wondered, "can I plead happy?"  The moon was full that evening, and I wondered if two more full moons might find me in labor.  (Ha! snorts the voice of hindsight, or is it the nose of hindsight if it is snorting?  The velum of hindsight, perhaps.)  Anthropomorphizing aside:  moonrise ahead of me and sunset behind, and a delicious inner confidence that I could manage what lay ahead of me -- a confidence that surged again every time I saw my midwife. 

A friend of mine who is planning her fifth home birth was talking to me about how much she liked Dr. Right.  "Midwives do all that goofy backrub stuff," she said.  "I hate that!  I just want them to leave me alone."  But I loved all that goofy backrub stuff.  Whenever I voiced a need, and sometimes when I didn't, they were right there.  They didn't hover, but they helped any way they could.  I fretted; they reassured. I groaned; they encouraged.  "It's more show!  That's the way!" they would say.  (In the moment I thought, "Oh, come on, anybody can push out MUCUS -- it doesn't have any bones!")  Through the hard part of my pushing stage they would lean in and push on the top of my pelvis together as a contraction hit, making more room for Pete to descend. Oh, the relief.

Birth is at bottom a solitary undertaking:  nobody can drink that cup for you.  (I sound like a bluegrass singer here:  You gotta wa-alk that lonesome valley....  It's true, though.)  Dr. Right's approach was to give me plenty of space to do what I needed to do.  I appreciated that.  But my midwife came in close.  She couldn't walk that road with me, but she could stand right nearby and tell me she knew I could get there.  And get there I did.

She came back 36 hours later for my postpartum visit and asked how I was feeling about the birth.  I said, a little choked up, "It was such a nice birth."  She said, "It was a nice birth, the kind that fills me up and keeps me going."  Suddenly I didn't want her to go -- she had been such a welcome, sane-ifying (what is the opposite of crazy-making?) presence during the last few months.  I said, "Thank you."  She answered, "It was an honor.  Thank you for inviting me."

For a few days I couldn't even think about that without tearing up. An honor?  To follow me around as I crawled on the floor mooing?  To wipe up the blood and mucus and excrement?  An honor?  But I thought more about it, and realized that she was the person who first saw my little guy's face.  She shared in one of the best moments of our marriage.  She listened in as we got acquainted with the baby we had waited eagerly to meet.

And it made me think again about the paradox of birth.  From what St. Paul calls my "less presentable parts," along with all the flushable stuff, have come my greatest treasures.  The most physically demanding work I have ever done has opened the door for the most spiritually demanding work I have ever done, work that is fitting me for heaven.  The most intense pain I have yet experienced has yielded to the richest joy I will know until the last great passage.  On that day, too, I hope to see a Face -- deeply beloved and heretofore hidden.

Here we are together, just a little while after Pete (hiding in towels) was born.  I am on top of the world.  (Perhaps some people can get to the top of the world with tidy hair; I cannot.)  She, I think, is enjoying the view with me.

Deflated, Inflated

Deflated: one culinary myth
Inflated: something tasty in your kitchen, I hope

Ask 25 people to finish this sentence:  the elegant dinner included a ____.  You'll get a mixed bag of responses, of course, but I'll bet a popular one will be "souffle."  Here is the skinny on souffles:  they are a) cheap b) tasty c) pretty and -- don't tell -- d) easy.

Our parish priest came for dinner on Friday and we had a souffle.  One of the nice things about souffles is that they are more flexible than you might expect.  In the late morning, I made a thick white sauce in a small saucepan.  (Melt 3T. butter; add 3T. flour and cook for a few minutes to take away the raw flour taste.  Gradually add a cup of milk, along with a half-teaspoon of salt and a pinch of nutmeg, and stir until thick and smooth.  Off the heat add a cup of grated cheese -- cheddar, Swiss, whatever suits you -- and stir until melted.)  I covered it with waxed paper to keep a skin from forming on top and left it on the stovetop. 

The next time I had both hands free, I separated six eggs (you know the trick about letting the white fall into a teacup at first and then pouring it into a larger container, right? --saves much frustration if you accidentally puncture the sixth yolk with a sharp bit of shell since it means redoing one egg instead of six) and stuck them in the fridge.  I microwaved some frozen chopped spinach, and when it was cool enough to handle I squeezed it dry.  (You'll need a half-cup.)  I left the spinach on the stovetop next to the white sauce.

When my husband came home from work I pulled the eggs out of the fridge so they could get to room temperature.  I smeared soft butter on the inside of a straight-sided round dish with a two-quart capacity, and then grated Parmesan cheese into the dish and smacked it around, like flour in a greased cake pan, to cover the butter.  I have read that this helps the souffle to climb higher; it also makes a delicious crust.

About 45 minutes before I wanted to serve the souffle, I turned the oven to 375 and beat the egg whites until soft peaks formed.  I stirred the spinach and egg yolks into the white sauce and added a big dollop of egg white to lighten it.  Then I emptied the saucepan into the bowl of egg whites and combined gently with a rubber scraper.  Into the dish it went, and then into the oven for 30-35 minutes.  You should serve yours immediately, to shouts of acclaim.  (I did not, because our priest was delayed at a hospital call.)  It will deflate quickly, so it's best if everyone is at the table when the timer goes off.

If it had been one of those evenings when everyone freaks out at once (I tell my children, "Only one person is allowed to cry at a time, so figure out whose turn it is," but oddly they don't always listen), I would have skipped beating the whites and possibly the Parmesan crust as well.  I would have mixed everything together speedily, in between crises, and slid it into the oven.  The result would not have been so pleasantly pouffy, but it would still have been pretty and tasty and cheap. 

***

One year ago I found the blog world.  I was resting at home that day, hoping that rest would slow my bleeding and keep my baby growing.  I was googling "miscarriage prevention" in hopes of finding a magic bullet.  I found no magic bullets, but I did find Chez Miscarriage.  In the middle of my worry I laughed and laughed, and felt less alone.  Perhaps someone else would find something deep to say about it, one year on, but instead I am writing about something fluffy.  Literally.  That's all I've got today, so it will have to be soufflicient.

In Which I Have a Brilliant Idea

I have never tried homeopathy, unless you count the old tube of arnica ointment in the medicine cabinet.  But yesterday I had an inspiration.  The answer to the question my husband kept asking during my pregnancy -- "Where did all the ice cream go?" -- has become distressingly clear:  it went to my behind.  The solution?  Homeopathy!

Like cures like, right?  I can drive away the ice cream flab by -- eating more ice cream!

Jamie's Homeopathic Ice Cream Diet -- how's that for my book title? 

I think I am going to be a zillionaire.  A slim and attractive zillionaire, even.

Into His Wonderful Light

The books all say you shouldn't push until you have to, but I ignored them.  I had been doing a lot of reading on second-stage labor, and I wanted a chance to think about how it felt to try some new ideas before I stopped being able to think clearly.  The midwife had brought a length of fabric for me to pull on during pushing, and I gave it a tentative try from the birth ball:  chin tucked, jaw relaxed, thighs relaxed, pu-u-u-ull on the fabric and push gently.

"I think that'll work," I said.  "I need to be able to plant my feet a little more securely.  And first I need to use the bathroom."

We trooped into the bathroom, and here things begin to get kaleidoscopic.  I have been mulling over the best way to tell the end of this story because there was so much happening.  Maybe I'll lay out the separate threads and you can imagine them interwoven.  Here's what we had going:

Body.  My contractions became more painful quickly.  But there was an important difference between this pushing stage and my others:  it was not nearly as overwhelming.  I don't know how well I've conveyed the intensity of my previous pushing stages, but they were crazy -- like a bullet train, like an F5 tornado.  The urge to push was like the urge to breathe after someone had been holding my head in a barrel of water for a minute or two:  Push or Die.  It sounds dramatic, I know, but it's true.  This time around it was more like a freight train -- it's still a big powerful thing, but it's not as scary to see it bearing down on you.  And it gets where it's going.

You know, that's a bad analogy, actually, because in this country right now freight trains get where they're going more reliably than high-speed passenger trains.  Maybe this is a better one:  have you ever been out walking on a summer's night and been caught in a storm?  The thunder is loud and the rain is heavy and you think, Boy, am I getting wet and I wish I were at home.  But when you get home and towel off your hair you remember the power of the thunder and the warmth of the rain and you think, Wow, that was amazing.

And wow, it was amazing.  I felt for the first time like I could choose how much to push instead of going flat-out with each contraction.  Less bearing-down effort meant more pain, but I could pick my spot on that curve.  I could ride it instead of running away from it.

Mind.  I don't remember anyone coaching me about pushing while I was doing it, but my mind was busy talking me through it.  Keep your weight forward in hopes of triggering a fetal-ejection reflex, thighs relaxed, don't hold your breath, jaw loose.  "Oh, Dr. Odent?" I remember thinking, "what does a person have to do to get a baby to fall out around here?"

Heart.  The most extraordinary thing about this stage was the peace I felt going through it -- I felt enfolded in love, secure in the goodness of God. For a few years now I had prayed regularly for JP2, for a gentle death in God's time.  I asked him to intercede for me now, for a gentle birth in God's time.  I remember praying little snippets of familiar prayers -- Queen of Heaven, rejoice! Alleluia!  I said, God, were you listening to Renee's prayer for me?  But I was okay with taking it slowly.

As the contractions intensified my voice got lower and lower and louder and louder, until the neighbors must have wondered, "Is there a livestock exhibition at the Gladlys' house tonight?"  One of my favorite memories of this birth is of a contraction when as my throat poured out a tenor moo my heart sang out, "Glory to you, Lord God!"  I thought about an image I love -- of all creation, from angels and archangels to rocks and trees, giving glory to God -- and I laughed to myself at the thought of my contribution to the blend.  I am forever telling my children, "God can use anything you give him," but it still makes me chuckle to think of my birthing noise as part of the celestial music.  The next morning I got an email from a friend saying, "I will pray for you, that you can give glory to God in the midst of your pain."  Isn't that cool?

Probably I should add a fourth thread:  mouth.  Another thing I am always telling my children is "out of the overflow of the heart the mouth speaks," but my mouth took on a life of its own during this birth.  "I hate this part," it said with feeling a few times; also, "who brought the plunger?"  They asked me whether something -- maybe warm compresses? -- felt right and I bleated, "There's a head in my pelvis -- nothing feels right."  They said something encouraging -- maybe "just a little more work"? -- and I bellowed forlornly, "THAT'S EASY FOR YOU TO SAY."

So here we are:  relax your jaw and glory to God and I hate this part all spliced together with an overlying haze of pain.  (But please, if you are considering a natural birth, don't be put off by the pain bit.  I am usually a wuss about pain but Ina May Gaskin is right:  labor pain is clean pain.  It is gone forever now and I honestly cannot remember how it hurt, only that it did hurt but that I could handle it.  You can too!)  I pushed in the bathtub, remembering Renee's experience and hoping my baby would ease out in one push (no dice), and I pushed on the toilet seat.  I squatted on the bathroom floor and pulled down on my husband's arms while he pulled against me.  I headed back to the living room and pushed some more -- hands and knees, semi-squatting, combinations thereof. 

It seemed like I'd been pushing for a while when the midwife checked me again.  Baby was only at 0 station and I had a moment of discouragement.  "I can't do it," I thought.  "Let's just go to the hospital so they can pull the baby out."  But then I realized I hadn't been pushing very hard; I had wanted to see what happened if I let my uterus do the work.  I began to put a little more of my back into it.  "It'd be faster in a full squat," said my mind, so I did one contraction that way and BANG my water broke, nice and clear.  I wasn't really in a hurry, though, so I didn't stay in a full squat for long.

A little while longer and the midwife checked me again. "I can only get one knuckle in before I feel the baby's head," she said excitedly.  All right then, I thought, let's do it.  She and her assistant were going to check the baby's heart tones again, but I called out sharply, "Crowning!" 

My Joe slid out in a whoosh once his big head was ready to go, but this time there was a lag.  I thought, "I bet the baby's shoulders are sticking.  But I'm in the right position and she knows what to do."  Turns out there was a loose loop of cord around baby's neck, easily passed over his head.  A shoulder was born, and a second shoulder, and --

-- and there was a new little person in the room.

He is nursing as I type this, his face already engraved on my heart.  But oh, I wish I had the words to tell you about that first moment when I scooped him up, still tethered to me, and held him close as his little purple body pinked up.  I am crying too hard to see as I remember, but in the moment there was no room for tears -- only joy, and elation, and relief.  Is there any moment more precious than that one, when the pain evaporates and the groans give way to coos of welcome?

And maybe that's where I'll leave it for today.  Welcome, baby, welcome.  We're so glad you're here.