It's the anniversary of the Montreal massacre today, when a man shot 14 women students, after declaring, "You're all just a bunch of feminists." Yesterday Mandela died. As I drive out of town, mostly what I see is bare soil and stubble. The only thing that lightens me is the birds' and squirrels' nests, revealed again. I even see what I think must be an osprey nest, on top of a telephone pole, right next to Gue1ph Lake.
When I arrive, she's in the kitchen, making lunch for the young men I'd seen in the barn. "It's just you, me and the guys," she says, a fact I remain faintly troubled by for the rest of the afternoon. What does it mean for my project about women farmers to have men helping?
She'd already brought my attention to the fact that she, the only woman on the farm, was making lunch for the men who were still out working. She wondered how much more she could take on, get done, if she could work outside all morning, knowing someone was making her a hot lunch, and then work outside for half a day more before someone else served dinner. All afternoon, I find myself trying to keep them out of the frame, especially when they were lifting the heavy things.
During lunch, talk turns to broth, and it's a treat for me to have more than one other person in the room who makes broth and we talk methodology for a bit. She tells us she only makes broth in the slow cooker now, ever since she literally filled the entire house (all three storeys!) with 'protein smoke.' They had to live in a hotel for three weeks while the whole house was cleaned, and even after they moved back in, they couldn't use the kitchen for another few months.
And she tells us about taking her last beloved goats to slaughter earlier this week. I've been wondering why had goats. I could see them as a dairy animal, but somehow they seem odd as a meat animal. Is there much of a market for ethically-raised goat meat? She says she was inspired by Marilyn Waring, who said that goat is the poor person's beef and that she raised goats in solidarity with poor women around the world. So long before my farmer even moved to the country, she decided she would have goats too. I'm a little familiar with Waring, but I think I need to learn more about her.
After lunch, the men go to split wood in the woods, while she harnesses the horses to haul it out. Once harnessed and outside the barn, they're a bit skittish, turning around to avoid being attached to the wagon. She says it's been too long since she last worked them. Eventually they are attached and they move off at some speed. She goes towards the pasture to turn them around and they really pick up speed as they come back down, past the barn and towards the woods. She offers me a ride and I hop on, without much thought. Then she tells me one of the horses has never been in the woods today, so I better be ready to bail. I am suddenly fearful for my gear but I don't want to lose face by getting off now.
They squeeze between one of the cars parked in her driveway and a tree, with only inches to spare. And the path in the woods is a bit narrower. The horses move fast and aren't always particularly attentive to her commands. Tree branches are flying by and the wagon is bumping and banging, its wood creaking like that old wooden roller coaster I once rode. At one point the wagon seemed dangerously tilted to my side, so I got down in the centre to avoid my weight flipping it. The thought flashed through my mind that my little urban life is looking awfully good right about now. All this danger just to bring in firewood for next winter, not even for this winter.
Turning the team and wagon in the woods seems more than a little hair-raising, but eventually she gets them where she wants them. She confesses this is also the first time she's had the wagon in the woods and it's a bit wide for the path. I get off with some relief. The fallen tree was very old and big, and the rounds that have been cut are ridiculously heavy. Once again, I feel awkward I'm not helping, but in this case, I really can't be of use. Some of the pieces need two men lifting them at once.
The darkness comes just as my camera battery dies. I leave quickly while she and the guys go back for another load of wood. I always leave her place with some kind of emotion. I'm not sure if it's longing for the fantasy that is so close to her life, or grief that the veil is lifting off my fantasy, and underneath it looks too damn hard for me.
Friday, December 6, 2013
Thursday, October 24, 2013
abattoir visit
I left in icy darkness early this morning. By the time I got out to the farm, I swear the stars had brightened and everything glowed with a pale light: it had snowed overnight.
The meat birds were awake and milling about outside their shelter, so gathering them into the shipping crates took longer than expected. Their calls of surprise tolled in the cold air as they were gently packed up.
The morning grew stunning as we drove, such that I found myself giving thanks for
When we arrived, one lone chicken was loose in front of the concrete building. It was missing so many feathers, I wondered if it had escaped from a plucking machine. But then I remembered that chickens were usually dead by that point, and then I wondered if it was headless. That was how few feathers it had left on its scrawny body.
Later, I discovered piles and piles of crates with the same featherless birds inside, many with big, beautiful, brown eggs. I was confused again, since meat birds don’t usually reach laying age. But then I figured it out: spent hens. These poor birds have spent their whole lives four to a cage, getting pecked featherless, pumping out eggs. I read recently that spent hens can no longer be used by the soup industry as their bones are too weak from the unsustainable egg-laying schedule that's been bred into them. They shatter through the slaughtering process, making the meat unusable. Those perfect eggs so incongruous next to the skeletal creatures that birthed them.
Outside, the smell hits me right away, still preferable to the inside: some kind of burning flesh and of course a hint of shit. Behind the main building, there is a round, cinder block building with smoke coming out it: that must be the smell. Some kind of rendering or something, maybe the viscera. Maybe the feet or heads. And there are more smells puffing out through vents from the main building in clouds of fetid steam.
She talks of Jane Siberry, "Calling All Angels," and the anecdote she heard at a recent concert, of New Yorkers playing the song in Central Park after 9/11.
When we get back to the farm, she tells me my coat will take a while to air out.
At home, I look up the song.
___________________________
Santa Maria, Santa Teresa, Santa Anna, Santa Susannah
Santa Cecilia, Santa Copelia, Santa Domenica, Mary Angelica
Frater Achad, Frater Pietro, Julianus, Petronilla
Santa, Santos, Miroslaw, Vladimir and all the rest
Oh, a man is placed upon the steps, a baby cries
High above, you can hear the church bells start to ring
And as the heaviness, oh the heaviness, the body settles in
Somewhere you could hear, a mother sing
Then it's one foot then the other as you step out on the road
Step out on the road, how much weight, how much weight?
Then it's how long and how far and how many times
Oh, before it's too late?
Calling all Angels, calling all Angels
Walk me through this one, don't leave me alone
Calling all Angels, calling all Angels
We're trying, we're hoping, but we're not sure how
Oh, and every day you gaze upon the sunset
With such love and intensity
Why, it's ah, it's almost as if you could only crack the code
You'd finally understand what this all means
Oh, but if you could, do you think you would
Trade it all, all the pain and suffering?
Oh, but then you would've missed the beauty of
The light upon this earth and the sweetness of the leaving
Calling all Angels, calling all Angels
Walk me through this one, don't leave me alone
Calling all Angels, calling all Angels
We're trying, we're hoping, but we're not sure why
Calling all Angels, calling all Angels
Calling all Angels, calling all Angels
Walk me through this one, walk me through this one
Don't leave me alone
Calling all Angels, calling all Angels
We're trying, we're hoping, we're hurting, we're loving
We're crying, we're calling
'Cause we're not sure how this goes
The meat birds were awake and milling about outside their shelter, so gathering them into the shipping crates took longer than expected. Their calls of surprise tolled in the cold air as they were gently packed up.
The morning grew stunning as we drove, such that I found myself giving thanks for
When we arrived, one lone chicken was loose in front of the concrete building. It was missing so many feathers, I wondered if it had escaped from a plucking machine. But then I remembered that chickens were usually dead by that point, and then I wondered if it was headless. That was how few feathers it had left on its scrawny body.
Later, I discovered piles and piles of crates with the same featherless birds inside, many with big, beautiful, brown eggs. I was confused again, since meat birds don’t usually reach laying age. But then I figured it out: spent hens. These poor birds have spent their whole lives four to a cage, getting pecked featherless, pumping out eggs. I read recently that spent hens can no longer be used by the soup industry as their bones are too weak from the unsustainable egg-laying schedule that's been bred into them. They shatter through the slaughtering process, making the meat unusable. Those perfect eggs so incongruous next to the skeletal creatures that birthed them.
Outside, the smell hits me right away, still preferable to the inside: some kind of burning flesh and of course a hint of shit. Behind the main building, there is a round, cinder block building with smoke coming out it: that must be the smell. Some kind of rendering or something, maybe the viscera. Maybe the feet or heads. And there are more smells puffing out through vents from the main building in clouds of fetid steam.
She talks of Jane Siberry, "Calling All Angels," and the anecdote she heard at a recent concert, of New Yorkers playing the song in Central Park after 9/11.
When we get back to the farm, she tells me my coat will take a while to air out.
At home, I look up the song.
___________________________
Santa Maria, Santa Teresa, Santa Anna, Santa Susannah
Santa Cecilia, Santa Copelia, Santa Domenica, Mary Angelica
Frater Achad, Frater Pietro, Julianus, Petronilla
Santa, Santos, Miroslaw, Vladimir and all the rest
Oh, a man is placed upon the steps, a baby cries
High above, you can hear the church bells start to ring
And as the heaviness, oh the heaviness, the body settles in
Somewhere you could hear, a mother sing
Then it's one foot then the other as you step out on the road
Step out on the road, how much weight, how much weight?
Then it's how long and how far and how many times
Oh, before it's too late?
Calling all Angels, calling all Angels
Walk me through this one, don't leave me alone
Calling all Angels, calling all Angels
We're trying, we're hoping, but we're not sure how
Oh, and every day you gaze upon the sunset
With such love and intensity
Why, it's ah, it's almost as if you could only crack the code
You'd finally understand what this all means
Oh, but if you could, do you think you would
Trade it all, all the pain and suffering?
Oh, but then you would've missed the beauty of
The light upon this earth and the sweetness of the leaving
Calling all Angels, calling all Angels
Walk me through this one, don't leave me alone
Calling all Angels, calling all Angels
We're trying, we're hoping, but we're not sure why
Calling all Angels, calling all Angels
Calling all Angels, calling all Angels
Walk me through this one, walk me through this one
Don't leave me alone
Calling all Angels, calling all Angels
We're trying, we're hoping, we're hurting, we're loving
We're crying, we're calling
'Cause we're not sure how this goes
Sunday, September 29, 2013
The Soul Farmer
The first thing she showed me was an aerial photo of her land. It's fitting, as she later told me she counts her relationship with the land and the animals on the land among her most intimate relationships, along with her family. I followed her as she hayed the horses, milked the two cows (whose milk she shares with their calves), fed the meat chickens (and gave the leftover chicken carcass from an overnight hawk attack to her dog) and rotated the cows' pasture.
Her fields aren't as fertile as she would like. She thinks she'll need to bring in more manure. This job of recovering the land needs more manure than it can sustain.
She spoke of this farm as her soul's work. She said she's figured out what orchestra she needs to play in, even what part of the orchestra, she thinks, but she's still figuring out what her song is, what notes are hers to contribute.
I lost track of time listening to her and watching, and rushed out. But as I drank of a glass of water for the road, I overheard her nine-year-old telling his friend, "Do you know what happens when a chicken dies? The other chickens eat its intestines because they think they're worms."
(Yep. He's right on. I saw it with my own eyes this very morning.)
Her fields aren't as fertile as she would like. She thinks she'll need to bring in more manure. This job of recovering the land needs more manure than it can sustain.
She spoke of this farm as her soul's work. She said she's figured out what orchestra she needs to play in, even what part of the orchestra, she thinks, but she's still figuring out what her song is, what notes are hers to contribute.
I lost track of time listening to her and watching, and rushed out. But as I drank of a glass of water for the road, I overheard her nine-year-old telling his friend, "Do you know what happens when a chicken dies? The other chickens eat its intestines because they think they're worms."
(Yep. He's right on. I saw it with my own eyes this very morning.)
Wednesday, September 25, 2013
Crazy Grazey Lady
After she gave up with the too-big post hole digger, we sat under an apple tree just outside the pigs' enclosure. The sun was warm and bright and she had to shade her eyes with her forearm, until she pulled her chair a bit further under the branches' dappling. She put a small table over the fresh cow pie between our chairs, and Nick placed a gorgeous tray with two tall glasses of fresh, homemade iced tea with a lemon slice, a bowl of multi-coloured cherry tomatoes and another of deep blue grapes.
It was glorious to be away from my gray cubicle and in the last warm sunshine of September. It didn't smell much like a farm. The wind just whiffed a few farmy breezes now and then.
So we sat in this dreamy setting and watched the pigs snuffle from their feeder and bump each other and watched the cows mow the grass by the driveway and we talked about nutrition and abattoirs and soil health and the problems with organic farming and the problems with conventional farming.
She is deeply pragmatic. "They don't know they'll be dinner in a few months."
"We leave at 9 in the morning and they're dead by noon."
I didn't photograph much, opting instead to get a feel for the place and for her. I hope she lets me come back.
It was glorious to be away from my gray cubicle and in the last warm sunshine of September. It didn't smell much like a farm. The wind just whiffed a few farmy breezes now and then.
So we sat in this dreamy setting and watched the pigs snuffle from their feeder and bump each other and watched the cows mow the grass by the driveway and we talked about nutrition and abattoirs and soil health and the problems with organic farming and the problems with conventional farming.
She is deeply pragmatic. "They don't know they'll be dinner in a few months."
"We leave at 9 in the morning and they're dead by noon."
I didn't photograph much, opting instead to get a feel for the place and for her. I hope she lets me come back.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
a new baby
So Wheels has a new baby brother. I'm going to call him Obie here. Not sure why, but since we don't know much of his personality or interests yet on account of him being an eating, sleeping and growing life machine, it seems as good as any nickname.
* * *
The thing about a VBAC (vaginal birth after Caesarean) is that it always takes place in the context of the previous birth. The memory of all that went wrong casts a long shadow (I think very few Caesareans where a subsequent VBAC is an option is the result of things going right). So I think the story of Obie's birth really begins with Wheels's.
After Wheels was born, I was so high with him being ok and in my arms that I didn't feel any grief or bad feelings about the way things went down (no pun intended). My goal had been to trust my caregivers and go with the flow, and I did that. No doubt it helped that the section was absolutely necessary – his cord was less than 20 cm long, so there was no other way he was coming out. When I got pregnant with Obie, all kinds of feelings, mostly fear, started to come up. Choosing to try a VBAC became a much harder decision than I'd expected, because it meant going into the unknown. At least I would know what to expect with another C-section.
When I was pregnant with Wheels, I read everything I could about natural childbirth. I believed that if I could harness my mind, I could have a good experience. But he was in distress for all of my labour, with heart decelerations that were not related to contractions. I had to lie down for the entire labour because sitting or standing would cause his heart rate to plummet. Between the fear for his life and the inability to move, the contractions quickly became unbearable, and I thought for sure I must be in transition. I wasn't; I was only 3 cm dilated. I was struggling so much, the midwife suggested an epidural, which I took. I went to 7 cm within an hour but I spiked a fever then and that was it: section time. I was relieved.
This time around, I wasn't gonna be so naive as to think labour and birth would be anything but excruciating. And I was scared. Scared of not being able to do it. Scared of having flashbacks to Wheels's life hanging in the balance. My midwives helped me work through some of the fear just by acknowledging it. I hired a doula, Jody, to support me and my husband during labour. Even though I felt like preparing would be naive, she helped me prepare in ways I found palatable.
The short story of Obie's birth is that my water broke around 6:30 in the morning, I started having to pay attention to the contractions around noon, we went to the hospital around 2ish, he was born at 4:45 p.m. and we came home around 10 that night. Now here's the long version.
* * *
The conventional story is that all women get really uncomfortable at the end of the pregnancy and are desperate to end it in any way. But I wasn't. My due date came and went, and I still felt comfortable. No trouble sleeping, the pelvic and back pain I'd had in the middle of my pregnancy was gone, and I was in no hurry to face the unknown. I felt like I could stay pregnant for another two weeks with no problem. The day before Obie was born, I worried to Jody that maybe I was blocking things, not feeling ready. But she reminded me that it's useless to compare experiences with other people. Everybody's different, and I may never feel ready, and that would be ok. She did some acupressure to induce labour before she left.
That night, I felt like things were happening. I was having lots of strong Braxton Hicks, quite frequently, and I felt like maybe the baby had dropped. It was hard to walk somehow with all the pressure on my bladder. When we got home from Wheels's swimming lesson, I phoned my parents and asked them to come down that night. I'd had a couple of nights in the last two weeks when I woke up in the middle of the night with frequent, strong Braxton Hicks and I'd stressed a bit about when to phone them, not wanting to wait too long since they needed to care for Wheels while we went to the hospital but not wanting to wake them unnecessarily in the middle of the night. They came, and the Braxton Hicks kept coming but they didn't get any stronger. I went to bed around around 11:30 and slept right through until about 5:30 a.m. I didn't even need to pee during that time. I woke feeling rested. I think I felt an odd sensation as I came to consciousness. It was something I'd never felt before during this or Wheels's pregnancy, and the only way I could describe it would be that it felt like the baby punched me in the cervix or punched through the sac. I thought to myself, “I bet when I stand up my water will break.” I laid in bed listening to the quiet house for a while and noticed menstrual-like cramps developing a slow rhythm. I think Wheels woke up and came in to say good morning around 6:30 a.m. As he stood beside my bed, my water broke. (Later on he refused to give me a hug because he said he didn't like the smell of my water breaking.)
When I looked at the mark on the bed, there were streaks in the fluid. Immediately I felt crushing deja vu. My water had broken early with Wheels as well, and the meconium in it had alerted us to his distress. I called the midwives and they asked me to come into the clinic to check that it was actually amniotic fluid and to see if there was meconium. I had a big cry remembering my fear-filled labour with Wheels and worrying I was about to repeat. All through this pregnancy, I'd told the midwives, “If my baby goes into distress, just cut me. Don't fuck around.” If there was meconium, I wouldn't even try labour – I'd go straight for the section, but I hadn't really considered this as a possibility. My parents took Wheels to school and I tried not to cry when I said goodbye to him. At the clinic, the midwife said it was fluid but not meconium, although they could see why I wondered. I was elated.
The midwives spent a lot of time explaining how I was on the clock now that my water had broken and if labour didn't start within 24 hours, we'd have to meet at the hospital to discuss options. She told me a bunch of different ways to get labour started, but the whole time I just thought to myself, I don't need to know all this. I'm pretty sure I'll be calling you around 3 in the afternoon. The menstrual-like cramps were still coming frequently while I was in their office, and I was pretty sure I was in early labour. “Now we go into the unknown,” I said.
It was a quiet morning at home. My mom puttered around the house. My dad went for a long walk to get the paper. Dave set up the chipmunk trap to try to get the damn critter out of our house once and for all. (It kept coming in, and we thought we'd finally sealed off its entrance, but that also meant we'd sealed its exit, and I wanted to make damn sure it left.) I sat on Jody's birth ball at the computer and frittered my time away on twitter and facebook and whatever, listening to Bon Iver's For Emma, Forever Ago. I think it was around 11 a.m. that I started noticing the cramps came every three minutes. They probably only lasted 30 seconds and I didn't need to pay attention to them. Around 11:40 they started lasting longer and they felt stronger. I had some cheese and crackers. The contractions intensified quickly and by 12:30 I had to pay close attention to them. I think this is when I started moaning with the contractions (I noticed my voice changing throughout the labour, in a distant sort of way, like I was listening from the outside. I suspect the noises made the people around me uncomfortable and made them think I was suffering more than I was. I didn't feel like I was suffering at all, really. I just needed to make noises that came from somewhere unconscious.) We called Jody and asked her to come over.
When she got here, she set up some pillows on the dining room table so that when I leaned on it through a contraction, I didn't strain my wrists. I just rested my elbows on the pillows and they were the right height. My back started to hurt, probably just from standing so long, and she got the hot water bottle, which they applied between contractions. During a contraction, Dave pressed against my hips and lower back. Soon my belly dancing came back and I was tracing imaginary infinity symbols on the floor with my hips during contractions. Dave followed the motion with his hands on my hips and back, and it felt really good.
We kept Bon Iver playing, and it was warm and sunny outside. I could hear the birds singing in our backyard through the screen door, and the sunlight dappled green through all the leaves. Hands lightly traced up the middle of my back and down the outside between contractions, and I started to cry with all the beauty and love that surrounded me and this baby. And I wept that Wheels hadn't gotten to experience that during his journey to the outside. Around 1:30 my voice changed. Now I was singing a labour song during contractions, higher pitched than the earlier moans. I'm pretty sure the sound worried my dad, and he kept saying, shouldn't you go to the hospital? I felt it was time too now. I knew things were going quickly.
So we called the midwives and they decided to meet us at the hospital shortly after 2 p.m. The contractions were still coming every three minutes and lasted a full minute. (My mom tracked them on paper and Jody tracked them on her iPhone. “Is there an app for that?” I joked.) I wasn't looking forward to the car ride, but Jody reminded me that it would only take about three contractions to get there. I could do that.
I had another contraction just outside the car, and I grabbed for Dave's shoulders, to lean on them. I thought about the neighbours who might be looking out their window right at that moment and watching such a cliched labour scene. Again, it was like I was watching from the outside, like I was behind that window. The contractions in the car weren't as bad as I'd expected, which was a good thing, because one of them lasted way way longer than a minute. I think it was around 2:20 p.m. when we pulled up to the hospital. Someone offered to get us a wheelchair, which Dave turned down, but my mom was all, “Now wait a minute. Yes, we'll have a wheelchair.” Jody thought to ask my opinion on the matter, and with the contractions coming so close together, I wanted the chair. I knew we'd make better progress if we didn't have to stop every three minutes. Plus I was walking really slowly.
“This is SO not the time to get stuck in the elevator,” I half-joked outside the elevator. There were two middle-aged men in the elevator we got on, who immediately looked uncomfortable. I can't remember if I had a contraction in the elevator but I remember not caring about them. They both got off on the same floor. “What do you bet at least one of them didn't need to get off on that floor?” Jody asked. We laughed.
Things get fuzzy at this point. I got into triage, and I must have been having a contraction because I had my eyes closed. I heard something about preparing a room for me. But they needed to check me first. They asked if I wanted a gown or if I wanted to stay in my own clothes. I didn't know. Couldn't make a decision. Did I need to pee? Maybe. I went to the bathroom by myself and locked the door, but Dave asked if I wanted him in there (he'd accompanied me on pee trips at home because invariably I'd have a contraction at some point). “Oh right,” I said. “Woman in labour should NOT lock the bathroom door from the inside.”
Back to the bed, and somehow between contractions they got the monitor in place and checked me. I was 4-5 cm and “very stretchy.” I was a bit disappointed but they reminded me that the first four cm are the hardest and longest to achieve, so I'd already done tons of work. Plus I was much further than where I'd gotten with Wheels before the epidural. The contractions were really hard to deal with at this point. Jody told me that changing locations and positions is always hard because I have to find a new rhythm after having had a good one going. Wheelchair ride to the private room and I think they might have asked me what position I wanted to be in, but again I didn't know and couldn't decide. I think I sat on the bed between contractions and stood up for the contraction to lean on Dave. If I paid attention and took a cleansing breath just before or as the contraction was starting, it was way easier to deal with. If I got distracted and it came on me before I had a chance to do that it became overwhelming. (This was Jody's suggestion – again and again she has proven to be far more valuable than her fee.)
Shortly after I got into the room, my voice changed again. Now I was making a noise like I do when I vomit. Again, I listened from the outside and I thought that it sounded like I was pushing, but I wasn't. I think I asked my mom to leave. The truth is, every time she tried to support me during a contraction, it all felt wrong. She wouldn't stop talking and it was all, “Just relax. Just breathe. You can do it,” kind of stuff and I didn't feel like I needed that, because I WAS relaxing and breathing and I KNEW I could do it. It was like a mosquito buzzing in my ear when I'm trying to sleep, you know? Dave and Jody and the midwives mostly stayed silent during contractions, except when I felt overwhelmed, and then they would say just the right thing to bring me back. I'd also felt some tension between my mom and the midwives (she's a nurse and pretty old-school in her views of labour and birth even though she had two natural, unmedicated births). When I hugged her goodbye, I said, “I don't know why I'm making this sound. I'm not pushing.” And she said, “I recognize that sound. It's your sick, something big is going on sound.”
At some point I gave myself a talking-to, “Open. Open. Just let your animal out. Put your head away. You can do this.”
After my mom left, I felt like I needed to push. But when the midwives checked me I was only 5-6 cm, so they said I couldn't or I would waste energy and swell my cervix. They said I should change position because being upright was probably strengthening my need to push but not necessarily opening my cervix. Again, I couldn't decide what position to go into, but I knew I didn't want to be on my back. Jody suggested hands and knees over the back of the bed. The urge to push was so strong it was often irresistible. Jody told me to do the horse lips thing but I couldn't. Instead I shook my head side to side with loose lips to make a similar sound. It felt absurd but at least it kept my mouth loose and gave me something to do instead of pushing. Sometimes I couldn't resist and just pushed. “I can't stop pushing,” I said. “That's ok, just do your best and try to breathe through it,” they (I don't know who) said.
This was the worst part of my whole labour. “This is HELLLLLLLLL!” I yelled. All of my being just wanted to push. Fighting it was like trying not to vomit. I felt like two wild animals were in my skin, fighting each other: one wanted to push and the other was trying to stop it. I shook my head and said, “Noooooooo no no no,” through contractions like a wolf with prey in its mouth. I wagged my hips like an animal in heat, like my ass was a temptress (“Go ahead and push why don't you. Just give in... you know you WANT to...”). But the wagging sometimes kept me from pushing too. Dave joked, “I think you've let your animal out.”
I think this went on for an hour, but I lost all sense of time. At one point Jody asked how to repeat the music (still Bon Iver's For Emma, Forever Ago) and I couldn't believe the album had already played through once. “Already?” I asked, and everyone laughed at my lost time. Sh@na, the primary midwife, apologized for having to tell me this, but she felt I needed to know that the anaesthesiologist was about to go into a longer case, so if I wanted an epidural now was the time. I was kind of mad that she told me this, especially on the heels of two particularly overwhelming contractions. I considered the epidural for a moment, wondering if it would help me not push. But the contractions were so on top of one another, I couldn't imagine how I could possibly stay still long enough to get it. Mostly I was afraid of the whole needle in my spine thing. So I just didn't respond to the topic. My mind was still somewhat rational but expressing thoughts in words was quite difficult at this point.
Sh@na said that at some point the need to push would change its character, and I should tell her when it did. But I couldn't be sure, because the urge had been so irresistible all along. I heard she and Jody or maybe it was Kate, the student midwife, talking and they seemed to agree that my sounds had changed. I didn't want to move to be checked though. I also didn't want the disappointment if I wasn't at 10 cm.
All this time, Sh@na had been fiddling with the fetal monitor to keep an eye on the baby, per hospital protocol and the college of midwifery's guidelines for VBACs. I can't imagine it was an easy job with all the wagging, and I found it kind of annoying. Finally she said she needed me on my back because she was having trouble picking up the baby's heartbeat. She kept getting mine instead. Once they got me on my back, they discovered it wasn't my heartbeat, but the baby's slowing heartbeat. I felt a sharp, excruciating pain that followed the line of my C-section scar during a contraction on my back, and I shrieked, “Is it rupturing?!?” convinced the train wreck had come. But nobody responded, so I guessed it hadn't ruptured. I think it was around now that I told Dave, “I just want to get out of my skin.” Sh@na checked me and found me to be 10 cm, but on my back I kind of lost the urge to push. I think the contractions also spread out quite a bit.
Sh@na said she was sorry but she was going to have to direct my pushing. She doesn't usually like to be directive, but with the baby's decelerations she just wanted me to have this baby. She was very calm and confident-sounding, so I didn't feel afraid. There was also a small, small part of me that just didn't really care. I'd go with whatever she said. I did think about a C-section at this point, since my mantra had always been, “If the baby goes into distress, just cut me.” But again with the contractions so fast and the baby so low, I kind of thought the opportunity had passed. And if the midwife thought this baby's best chance was on my shoulders (well, my pelvis really I guess), who was I to doubt her?
I was given an oxygen mask between contractions for the baby. We discovered that lying on my right side helped the baby recover well between contractions and Shana tickled the baby's head to stimulate his recovery. She put the pediatrician on standby in case the baby needed help, but her hope was that the cord was just wrapped around the baby's neck and she'd unloop it and all would be fine. At one point, a contraction ended and the oxygen mask was slow coming to my face. “Oxygen,” I said. “I just want to help this baby.”
Four people held up my legs and gave me instructions. I couldn't listen to them very well, but every once in a while someone would say, “That's it. Can you feel the difference? That's what you need to do.” But I couldn't feel a difference.
Then I was burning. It wasn't a ring of fire for me, it was a just a big burning mass, and I had to wait through it for another contraction. They asked me if I wanted to grab my baby but I was too busy and thought I would drop him. “That wasn't so bad!” I said when he popped out, and everyone looked at me like I was crazy, because I'd been pretty loud. But I didn't mean the labour, I meant the actual birthing. I kept thinking it was going to get worse, but it stayed kind of the same until suddenly he popped out. Then he was on my stomach, all gray and pasty-looking. I wondered if that was normal, but nobody else seemed concerned. The cord had been around his neck and Shana had slipped it off before he wound up on my belly, and he got pink pretty quickly.
“We did it!” I said to the baby, just as I'd fantasized saying since I'd decided to try a VBAC.
I felt quite blissed out, but it was somehow less intense than the high I had after Wheels was born. I didn't weep like I did with Wheels, I guess because I just hadn't felt afraid.
After that it wasn't as much fun. They stitched me up for like an hour because I was torn in four different directions: up, back and on two diagonals. Every once in a while I'd half-snap at Shana, “I FELT that!” and I complained when she said she needed to do a rectal to see if I was torn there. “What?!? Nobody said anything about a rectal!” They kept pushing on my tender belly to make sure my uterus was contracting. It was entirely too much poking and prodding after such a peak experience. But what are you going to do? The whole time Obie laid on my chest, peaceful. I'd commented to several people during my pregnancy that the baby seemed quite quiet – he moved in my womb, but not big movements and not a lot of punching and kicking. Dave and I narrowed the possible names for him down to two based on his peacefulness.
It wasn't long before Grandpa brought Wheels to visit, and they told me the chipmunk had gotten trapped and they'd released him at a park a few kilometers from our house so he wouldn't come back. After they left, I tried to eat some of the horrid hospital food to get my strength back. I got up and peed eventually and had a quick shower. The midwives left and it was just the three of us, waiting until I felt ready to go home. I would have liked to stay a bit longer, but I didn't want to spend the night there. So we left when I was still a bit shaky. The transition to not being pregnant was much more jarring without three timeless days of feeling run over by a train in a hospital bed like last time. As we were walking through the corridor to leave, I had a sudden moment of panic: “I can't feel the baby!” But of course I couldn't – he was in the carseat, not my belly.
It was pissing with rain outside, and as we stepped out the hospital door, a big bolt of lightning struck through the black sky with a big clap of thunder. “Welcome to the world, little guy,” I thought.
* * *
The thing about a VBAC (vaginal birth after Caesarean) is that it always takes place in the context of the previous birth. The memory of all that went wrong casts a long shadow (I think very few Caesareans where a subsequent VBAC is an option is the result of things going right). So I think the story of Obie's birth really begins with Wheels's.
After Wheels was born, I was so high with him being ok and in my arms that I didn't feel any grief or bad feelings about the way things went down (no pun intended). My goal had been to trust my caregivers and go with the flow, and I did that. No doubt it helped that the section was absolutely necessary – his cord was less than 20 cm long, so there was no other way he was coming out. When I got pregnant with Obie, all kinds of feelings, mostly fear, started to come up. Choosing to try a VBAC became a much harder decision than I'd expected, because it meant going into the unknown. At least I would know what to expect with another C-section.
When I was pregnant with Wheels, I read everything I could about natural childbirth. I believed that if I could harness my mind, I could have a good experience. But he was in distress for all of my labour, with heart decelerations that were not related to contractions. I had to lie down for the entire labour because sitting or standing would cause his heart rate to plummet. Between the fear for his life and the inability to move, the contractions quickly became unbearable, and I thought for sure I must be in transition. I wasn't; I was only 3 cm dilated. I was struggling so much, the midwife suggested an epidural, which I took. I went to 7 cm within an hour but I spiked a fever then and that was it: section time. I was relieved.
This time around, I wasn't gonna be so naive as to think labour and birth would be anything but excruciating. And I was scared. Scared of not being able to do it. Scared of having flashbacks to Wheels's life hanging in the balance. My midwives helped me work through some of the fear just by acknowledging it. I hired a doula, Jody, to support me and my husband during labour. Even though I felt like preparing would be naive, she helped me prepare in ways I found palatable.
The short story of Obie's birth is that my water broke around 6:30 in the morning, I started having to pay attention to the contractions around noon, we went to the hospital around 2ish, he was born at 4:45 p.m. and we came home around 10 that night. Now here's the long version.
* * *
The conventional story is that all women get really uncomfortable at the end of the pregnancy and are desperate to end it in any way. But I wasn't. My due date came and went, and I still felt comfortable. No trouble sleeping, the pelvic and back pain I'd had in the middle of my pregnancy was gone, and I was in no hurry to face the unknown. I felt like I could stay pregnant for another two weeks with no problem. The day before Obie was born, I worried to Jody that maybe I was blocking things, not feeling ready. But she reminded me that it's useless to compare experiences with other people. Everybody's different, and I may never feel ready, and that would be ok. She did some acupressure to induce labour before she left.
That night, I felt like things were happening. I was having lots of strong Braxton Hicks, quite frequently, and I felt like maybe the baby had dropped. It was hard to walk somehow with all the pressure on my bladder. When we got home from Wheels's swimming lesson, I phoned my parents and asked them to come down that night. I'd had a couple of nights in the last two weeks when I woke up in the middle of the night with frequent, strong Braxton Hicks and I'd stressed a bit about when to phone them, not wanting to wait too long since they needed to care for Wheels while we went to the hospital but not wanting to wake them unnecessarily in the middle of the night. They came, and the Braxton Hicks kept coming but they didn't get any stronger. I went to bed around around 11:30 and slept right through until about 5:30 a.m. I didn't even need to pee during that time. I woke feeling rested. I think I felt an odd sensation as I came to consciousness. It was something I'd never felt before during this or Wheels's pregnancy, and the only way I could describe it would be that it felt like the baby punched me in the cervix or punched through the sac. I thought to myself, “I bet when I stand up my water will break.” I laid in bed listening to the quiet house for a while and noticed menstrual-like cramps developing a slow rhythm. I think Wheels woke up and came in to say good morning around 6:30 a.m. As he stood beside my bed, my water broke. (Later on he refused to give me a hug because he said he didn't like the smell of my water breaking.)
When I looked at the mark on the bed, there were streaks in the fluid. Immediately I felt crushing deja vu. My water had broken early with Wheels as well, and the meconium in it had alerted us to his distress. I called the midwives and they asked me to come into the clinic to check that it was actually amniotic fluid and to see if there was meconium. I had a big cry remembering my fear-filled labour with Wheels and worrying I was about to repeat. All through this pregnancy, I'd told the midwives, “If my baby goes into distress, just cut me. Don't fuck around.” If there was meconium, I wouldn't even try labour – I'd go straight for the section, but I hadn't really considered this as a possibility. My parents took Wheels to school and I tried not to cry when I said goodbye to him. At the clinic, the midwife said it was fluid but not meconium, although they could see why I wondered. I was elated.
The midwives spent a lot of time explaining how I was on the clock now that my water had broken and if labour didn't start within 24 hours, we'd have to meet at the hospital to discuss options. She told me a bunch of different ways to get labour started, but the whole time I just thought to myself, I don't need to know all this. I'm pretty sure I'll be calling you around 3 in the afternoon. The menstrual-like cramps were still coming frequently while I was in their office, and I was pretty sure I was in early labour. “Now we go into the unknown,” I said.
It was a quiet morning at home. My mom puttered around the house. My dad went for a long walk to get the paper. Dave set up the chipmunk trap to try to get the damn critter out of our house once and for all. (It kept coming in, and we thought we'd finally sealed off its entrance, but that also meant we'd sealed its exit, and I wanted to make damn sure it left.) I sat on Jody's birth ball at the computer and frittered my time away on twitter and facebook and whatever, listening to Bon Iver's For Emma, Forever Ago. I think it was around 11 a.m. that I started noticing the cramps came every three minutes. They probably only lasted 30 seconds and I didn't need to pay attention to them. Around 11:40 they started lasting longer and they felt stronger. I had some cheese and crackers. The contractions intensified quickly and by 12:30 I had to pay close attention to them. I think this is when I started moaning with the contractions (I noticed my voice changing throughout the labour, in a distant sort of way, like I was listening from the outside. I suspect the noises made the people around me uncomfortable and made them think I was suffering more than I was. I didn't feel like I was suffering at all, really. I just needed to make noises that came from somewhere unconscious.) We called Jody and asked her to come over.
When she got here, she set up some pillows on the dining room table so that when I leaned on it through a contraction, I didn't strain my wrists. I just rested my elbows on the pillows and they were the right height. My back started to hurt, probably just from standing so long, and she got the hot water bottle, which they applied between contractions. During a contraction, Dave pressed against my hips and lower back. Soon my belly dancing came back and I was tracing imaginary infinity symbols on the floor with my hips during contractions. Dave followed the motion with his hands on my hips and back, and it felt really good.
We kept Bon Iver playing, and it was warm and sunny outside. I could hear the birds singing in our backyard through the screen door, and the sunlight dappled green through all the leaves. Hands lightly traced up the middle of my back and down the outside between contractions, and I started to cry with all the beauty and love that surrounded me and this baby. And I wept that Wheels hadn't gotten to experience that during his journey to the outside. Around 1:30 my voice changed. Now I was singing a labour song during contractions, higher pitched than the earlier moans. I'm pretty sure the sound worried my dad, and he kept saying, shouldn't you go to the hospital? I felt it was time too now. I knew things were going quickly.
So we called the midwives and they decided to meet us at the hospital shortly after 2 p.m. The contractions were still coming every three minutes and lasted a full minute. (My mom tracked them on paper and Jody tracked them on her iPhone. “Is there an app for that?” I joked.) I wasn't looking forward to the car ride, but Jody reminded me that it would only take about three contractions to get there. I could do that.
I had another contraction just outside the car, and I grabbed for Dave's shoulders, to lean on them. I thought about the neighbours who might be looking out their window right at that moment and watching such a cliched labour scene. Again, it was like I was watching from the outside, like I was behind that window. The contractions in the car weren't as bad as I'd expected, which was a good thing, because one of them lasted way way longer than a minute. I think it was around 2:20 p.m. when we pulled up to the hospital. Someone offered to get us a wheelchair, which Dave turned down, but my mom was all, “Now wait a minute. Yes, we'll have a wheelchair.” Jody thought to ask my opinion on the matter, and with the contractions coming so close together, I wanted the chair. I knew we'd make better progress if we didn't have to stop every three minutes. Plus I was walking really slowly.
“This is SO not the time to get stuck in the elevator,” I half-joked outside the elevator. There were two middle-aged men in the elevator we got on, who immediately looked uncomfortable. I can't remember if I had a contraction in the elevator but I remember not caring about them. They both got off on the same floor. “What do you bet at least one of them didn't need to get off on that floor?” Jody asked. We laughed.
Things get fuzzy at this point. I got into triage, and I must have been having a contraction because I had my eyes closed. I heard something about preparing a room for me. But they needed to check me first. They asked if I wanted a gown or if I wanted to stay in my own clothes. I didn't know. Couldn't make a decision. Did I need to pee? Maybe. I went to the bathroom by myself and locked the door, but Dave asked if I wanted him in there (he'd accompanied me on pee trips at home because invariably I'd have a contraction at some point). “Oh right,” I said. “Woman in labour should NOT lock the bathroom door from the inside.”
Back to the bed, and somehow between contractions they got the monitor in place and checked me. I was 4-5 cm and “very stretchy.” I was a bit disappointed but they reminded me that the first four cm are the hardest and longest to achieve, so I'd already done tons of work. Plus I was much further than where I'd gotten with Wheels before the epidural. The contractions were really hard to deal with at this point. Jody told me that changing locations and positions is always hard because I have to find a new rhythm after having had a good one going. Wheelchair ride to the private room and I think they might have asked me what position I wanted to be in, but again I didn't know and couldn't decide. I think I sat on the bed between contractions and stood up for the contraction to lean on Dave. If I paid attention and took a cleansing breath just before or as the contraction was starting, it was way easier to deal with. If I got distracted and it came on me before I had a chance to do that it became overwhelming. (This was Jody's suggestion – again and again she has proven to be far more valuable than her fee.)
Shortly after I got into the room, my voice changed again. Now I was making a noise like I do when I vomit. Again, I listened from the outside and I thought that it sounded like I was pushing, but I wasn't. I think I asked my mom to leave. The truth is, every time she tried to support me during a contraction, it all felt wrong. She wouldn't stop talking and it was all, “Just relax. Just breathe. You can do it,” kind of stuff and I didn't feel like I needed that, because I WAS relaxing and breathing and I KNEW I could do it. It was like a mosquito buzzing in my ear when I'm trying to sleep, you know? Dave and Jody and the midwives mostly stayed silent during contractions, except when I felt overwhelmed, and then they would say just the right thing to bring me back. I'd also felt some tension between my mom and the midwives (she's a nurse and pretty old-school in her views of labour and birth even though she had two natural, unmedicated births). When I hugged her goodbye, I said, “I don't know why I'm making this sound. I'm not pushing.” And she said, “I recognize that sound. It's your sick, something big is going on sound.”
At some point I gave myself a talking-to, “Open. Open. Just let your animal out. Put your head away. You can do this.”
After my mom left, I felt like I needed to push. But when the midwives checked me I was only 5-6 cm, so they said I couldn't or I would waste energy and swell my cervix. They said I should change position because being upright was probably strengthening my need to push but not necessarily opening my cervix. Again, I couldn't decide what position to go into, but I knew I didn't want to be on my back. Jody suggested hands and knees over the back of the bed. The urge to push was so strong it was often irresistible. Jody told me to do the horse lips thing but I couldn't. Instead I shook my head side to side with loose lips to make a similar sound. It felt absurd but at least it kept my mouth loose and gave me something to do instead of pushing. Sometimes I couldn't resist and just pushed. “I can't stop pushing,” I said. “That's ok, just do your best and try to breathe through it,” they (I don't know who) said.
This was the worst part of my whole labour. “This is HELLLLLLLLL!” I yelled. All of my being just wanted to push. Fighting it was like trying not to vomit. I felt like two wild animals were in my skin, fighting each other: one wanted to push and the other was trying to stop it. I shook my head and said, “Noooooooo no no no,” through contractions like a wolf with prey in its mouth. I wagged my hips like an animal in heat, like my ass was a temptress (“Go ahead and push why don't you. Just give in... you know you WANT to...”). But the wagging sometimes kept me from pushing too. Dave joked, “I think you've let your animal out.”
I think this went on for an hour, but I lost all sense of time. At one point Jody asked how to repeat the music (still Bon Iver's For Emma, Forever Ago) and I couldn't believe the album had already played through once. “Already?” I asked, and everyone laughed at my lost time. Sh@na, the primary midwife, apologized for having to tell me this, but she felt I needed to know that the anaesthesiologist was about to go into a longer case, so if I wanted an epidural now was the time. I was kind of mad that she told me this, especially on the heels of two particularly overwhelming contractions. I considered the epidural for a moment, wondering if it would help me not push. But the contractions were so on top of one another, I couldn't imagine how I could possibly stay still long enough to get it. Mostly I was afraid of the whole needle in my spine thing. So I just didn't respond to the topic. My mind was still somewhat rational but expressing thoughts in words was quite difficult at this point.
Sh@na said that at some point the need to push would change its character, and I should tell her when it did. But I couldn't be sure, because the urge had been so irresistible all along. I heard she and Jody or maybe it was Kate, the student midwife, talking and they seemed to agree that my sounds had changed. I didn't want to move to be checked though. I also didn't want the disappointment if I wasn't at 10 cm.
All this time, Sh@na had been fiddling with the fetal monitor to keep an eye on the baby, per hospital protocol and the college of midwifery's guidelines for VBACs. I can't imagine it was an easy job with all the wagging, and I found it kind of annoying. Finally she said she needed me on my back because she was having trouble picking up the baby's heartbeat. She kept getting mine instead. Once they got me on my back, they discovered it wasn't my heartbeat, but the baby's slowing heartbeat. I felt a sharp, excruciating pain that followed the line of my C-section scar during a contraction on my back, and I shrieked, “Is it rupturing?!?” convinced the train wreck had come. But nobody responded, so I guessed it hadn't ruptured. I think it was around now that I told Dave, “I just want to get out of my skin.” Sh@na checked me and found me to be 10 cm, but on my back I kind of lost the urge to push. I think the contractions also spread out quite a bit.
Sh@na said she was sorry but she was going to have to direct my pushing. She doesn't usually like to be directive, but with the baby's decelerations she just wanted me to have this baby. She was very calm and confident-sounding, so I didn't feel afraid. There was also a small, small part of me that just didn't really care. I'd go with whatever she said. I did think about a C-section at this point, since my mantra had always been, “If the baby goes into distress, just cut me.” But again with the contractions so fast and the baby so low, I kind of thought the opportunity had passed. And if the midwife thought this baby's best chance was on my shoulders (well, my pelvis really I guess), who was I to doubt her?
I was given an oxygen mask between contractions for the baby. We discovered that lying on my right side helped the baby recover well between contractions and Shana tickled the baby's head to stimulate his recovery. She put the pediatrician on standby in case the baby needed help, but her hope was that the cord was just wrapped around the baby's neck and she'd unloop it and all would be fine. At one point, a contraction ended and the oxygen mask was slow coming to my face. “Oxygen,” I said. “I just want to help this baby.”
Four people held up my legs and gave me instructions. I couldn't listen to them very well, but every once in a while someone would say, “That's it. Can you feel the difference? That's what you need to do.” But I couldn't feel a difference.
Then I was burning. It wasn't a ring of fire for me, it was a just a big burning mass, and I had to wait through it for another contraction. They asked me if I wanted to grab my baby but I was too busy and thought I would drop him. “That wasn't so bad!” I said when he popped out, and everyone looked at me like I was crazy, because I'd been pretty loud. But I didn't mean the labour, I meant the actual birthing. I kept thinking it was going to get worse, but it stayed kind of the same until suddenly he popped out. Then he was on my stomach, all gray and pasty-looking. I wondered if that was normal, but nobody else seemed concerned. The cord had been around his neck and Shana had slipped it off before he wound up on my belly, and he got pink pretty quickly.
“We did it!” I said to the baby, just as I'd fantasized saying since I'd decided to try a VBAC.
I felt quite blissed out, but it was somehow less intense than the high I had after Wheels was born. I didn't weep like I did with Wheels, I guess because I just hadn't felt afraid.
After that it wasn't as much fun. They stitched me up for like an hour because I was torn in four different directions: up, back and on two diagonals. Every once in a while I'd half-snap at Shana, “I FELT that!” and I complained when she said she needed to do a rectal to see if I was torn there. “What?!? Nobody said anything about a rectal!” They kept pushing on my tender belly to make sure my uterus was contracting. It was entirely too much poking and prodding after such a peak experience. But what are you going to do? The whole time Obie laid on my chest, peaceful. I'd commented to several people during my pregnancy that the baby seemed quite quiet – he moved in my womb, but not big movements and not a lot of punching and kicking. Dave and I narrowed the possible names for him down to two based on his peacefulness.
It wasn't long before Grandpa brought Wheels to visit, and they told me the chipmunk had gotten trapped and they'd released him at a park a few kilometers from our house so he wouldn't come back. After they left, I tried to eat some of the horrid hospital food to get my strength back. I got up and peed eventually and had a quick shower. The midwives left and it was just the three of us, waiting until I felt ready to go home. I would have liked to stay a bit longer, but I didn't want to spend the night there. So we left when I was still a bit shaky. The transition to not being pregnant was much more jarring without three timeless days of feeling run over by a train in a hospital bed like last time. As we were walking through the corridor to leave, I had a sudden moment of panic: “I can't feel the baby!” But of course I couldn't – he was in the carseat, not my belly.
It was pissing with rain outside, and as we stepped out the hospital door, a big bolt of lightning struck through the black sky with a big clap of thunder. “Welcome to the world, little guy,” I thought.
Monday, February 7, 2011
five years old
Dear Wheels,
Today you are five. It's been more than two years since I wrote you one of these letters, but this seems to be kind of a momentous birthday for you. I have so many memories from when I was five, that I've become very conscious of the memories you may be laying down. And I want to commit some of my own memories of you.
You are waiting impatiently for the arrival of a new brother or sister, although it's still (probably) more than three months away. I asked you other day if you thought a boy or a girl might be more fun for you than the other. (Everyone keeps asking me if you have a preference but it's not something we've really talked about.) You said you thought a girl would be more fun. When I asked why, you said because girls can have babies. Now, you say you can see in my belly and that it's a girl.
You've spent quite a bit of the pregnancy, and the time before, grieving that you aren't a girl. You really, really wish you had a uterus so you could grow a baby of your own. You don't yet know that daddies have a role in making babies.
But life is tangled with death, as ever. We are expecting our cat to die soon. Her right back leg stopped working just before Christmas and her right front leg seemed to die a couple of weeks ago. The vet thinks it's a tumour on her spine, and eventually, we don't know when, it will affect her other legs and she won't be able to move. So we had to start preparing you for her death. When I told you, of course you asked what happens when we die. (I can't BELIEVE I didn't prepare for that! Of course you would ask.) I was straight with you, as I always am. I said that people don't really know and people believe different things, but that I believe our spirit, who we truly are inside, separates from our body and goes to another world where spirits hang out. I told you we usually bury the body, like we did with the two dead chipmunks we discovered by our back door last fall.
And you said, "I think the spirit looks for a mummy with a baby in her tummy."
And that kinda floored me.
And then I remembered that I believe in reincarnation too. I've often thought that I'm my father's father reincarnated - for various reasons, not least among them that when my mom first saw me after I was born, she thought so.
I told you, "You know, that makes a lot of sense. I bet you're right." (Not that I really want our cat to become our baby - truthfully I've been waiting for her to die ever since a parasite caused her to spray diarrhea all over the house when you were six weeks old. But in the last year, I've realized how fond you are of her and how well you treat her, and I've changed my tune.)
It struck me that you would be closer to the experience of being a spirit looking for a baby than me. And I remembered how about a year ago you asked where you were before you got in my tummy. And once again, I didn't have an answer. I told you that I didn't know.
Anyways, the vet gave the cat a shot of steroids, and it seems to have really helped her. She's walking much better - she can actually get around - and she's being sociable and eating ok. So I think it may actually be a while before she dies. I'm probably kind of in denial. But the other morning, you said, "I think she's sad because she's going to die."
When I was about this pregnant with you, my grandma died. The last time I saw her I wore my favourite maternity shirt, which made me look like I'd swallowed a pumpkin (it was very near Halloween). I was hoping the sight of my belly would inspire her to stay here so she could meet you (of course I didn't know it was YOU then, but...). But she was already only half in this world, I could tell. She was ready to go. I'm sure she was sad to leave us, but she was tired. She'd lost so many of her loved ones, she was pretty much the last of her generation, and she was done.
So I told you this, the other day. That I think when people die, they're usually ready to go, and not really sad about dying. That it's those of us who are left who are most sad. And I cried while I told you this and remembered my grandma and how sad I remain that she didn't get to meet you (damn these pregnancy hormones -- they're making me cry now too, writing this). You cried a little bit too, and we had a good cuddle.
Five years ago from this very moment, I was being wheeled into the operating room to have you cut from my belly. When you asked a couple of years ago how you got out of my belly, I was kind of glad, in a way, to tell you that the doctor cut my stomach to get you out. Somehow it seemed easier than telling you how most babies are born. But I did tell you that most babies aren't born that way, and again about a month or so ago, when you asked how big the hole would be to get this baby out. I said I didn't know if this baby would be cut out, and that even if it was they wouldn't cut a hole. It would just be a line. You got very upset that you wouldn't get to see inside my stomach. Even more when I told you you probably wouldn't be allowed into the operating room if they had to.
My mind is turning increasingly to the birth of this baby, to memories of your birth. The other morning I read your birth story for the first time in probably more than four years. It had a lot of details I'd forgotten. My biggest memories are how scared I was, throughout my labour, that you wouldn't live. And how much it hurt after I was forced to lie down, because standing or sitting caused your heart rate to plummet. And the unbearably long, long silence between when the anesthesiologist said quietly, "It's a boy," and your first glorious cry that was the most beautiful song I'd ever heard.
I didn't stop shaking until they brought you to me maybe two hours after the surgery. I'd forgotten that they took you away again after that, for something close to five hours I wrote in your birth story. When I think about my reasons for attempting a VBAC with this baby, that seven hours of separation is what I think I will hold onto. I think we spent your first two years making up for those seven hours. But now you are a confident, articulate child. You didn't struggle much with the transition to school, beyond the fact that it's hard work for you and you don't particularly LIKE working all day. You've told me repeatedly you just want to play all day. I get it, I really do. I haven't told you that you have about sixty more years to go of it. Who knows, maybe you'll find another path.
I love hearing about your thoughts and how you see the world. Like when you forgot how long it takes to grow a baby, about a month after telling your entire class in daycare and all your friends' parents that it takes nine months. You told me you'd put the detail in your one-day mind instead of your forever mind, which was why you'd forgotten.
This letter is more about me than you, and I'm sorry. But I've been really wanting to record some of these conversations we've been having, and the keen insights you share. You think about things in a way I'm not sure other just-five-year-olds think. It seems to me you know more about things, you make deeper connections between things. But maybe I'm biased.
Wherever your spirit was before you joined us, whoever you were and whenever it was, precisely, that you joined us, I thank you for picking us. Life with you is more everything than it ever was before.
Love Mom
Today you are five. It's been more than two years since I wrote you one of these letters, but this seems to be kind of a momentous birthday for you. I have so many memories from when I was five, that I've become very conscious of the memories you may be laying down. And I want to commit some of my own memories of you.
You are waiting impatiently for the arrival of a new brother or sister, although it's still (probably) more than three months away. I asked you other day if you thought a boy or a girl might be more fun for you than the other. (Everyone keeps asking me if you have a preference but it's not something we've really talked about.) You said you thought a girl would be more fun. When I asked why, you said because girls can have babies. Now, you say you can see in my belly and that it's a girl.
You've spent quite a bit of the pregnancy, and the time before, grieving that you aren't a girl. You really, really wish you had a uterus so you could grow a baby of your own. You don't yet know that daddies have a role in making babies.
But life is tangled with death, as ever. We are expecting our cat to die soon. Her right back leg stopped working just before Christmas and her right front leg seemed to die a couple of weeks ago. The vet thinks it's a tumour on her spine, and eventually, we don't know when, it will affect her other legs and she won't be able to move. So we had to start preparing you for her death. When I told you, of course you asked what happens when we die. (I can't BELIEVE I didn't prepare for that! Of course you would ask.) I was straight with you, as I always am. I said that people don't really know and people believe different things, but that I believe our spirit, who we truly are inside, separates from our body and goes to another world where spirits hang out. I told you we usually bury the body, like we did with the two dead chipmunks we discovered by our back door last fall.
And you said, "I think the spirit looks for a mummy with a baby in her tummy."
And that kinda floored me.
And then I remembered that I believe in reincarnation too. I've often thought that I'm my father's father reincarnated - for various reasons, not least among them that when my mom first saw me after I was born, she thought so.
I told you, "You know, that makes a lot of sense. I bet you're right." (Not that I really want our cat to become our baby - truthfully I've been waiting for her to die ever since a parasite caused her to spray diarrhea all over the house when you were six weeks old. But in the last year, I've realized how fond you are of her and how well you treat her, and I've changed my tune.)
It struck me that you would be closer to the experience of being a spirit looking for a baby than me. And I remembered how about a year ago you asked where you were before you got in my tummy. And once again, I didn't have an answer. I told you that I didn't know.
Anyways, the vet gave the cat a shot of steroids, and it seems to have really helped her. She's walking much better - she can actually get around - and she's being sociable and eating ok. So I think it may actually be a while before she dies. I'm probably kind of in denial. But the other morning, you said, "I think she's sad because she's going to die."
When I was about this pregnant with you, my grandma died. The last time I saw her I wore my favourite maternity shirt, which made me look like I'd swallowed a pumpkin (it was very near Halloween). I was hoping the sight of my belly would inspire her to stay here so she could meet you (of course I didn't know it was YOU then, but...). But she was already only half in this world, I could tell. She was ready to go. I'm sure she was sad to leave us, but she was tired. She'd lost so many of her loved ones, she was pretty much the last of her generation, and she was done.
So I told you this, the other day. That I think when people die, they're usually ready to go, and not really sad about dying. That it's those of us who are left who are most sad. And I cried while I told you this and remembered my grandma and how sad I remain that she didn't get to meet you (damn these pregnancy hormones -- they're making me cry now too, writing this). You cried a little bit too, and we had a good cuddle.
Five years ago from this very moment, I was being wheeled into the operating room to have you cut from my belly. When you asked a couple of years ago how you got out of my belly, I was kind of glad, in a way, to tell you that the doctor cut my stomach to get you out. Somehow it seemed easier than telling you how most babies are born. But I did tell you that most babies aren't born that way, and again about a month or so ago, when you asked how big the hole would be to get this baby out. I said I didn't know if this baby would be cut out, and that even if it was they wouldn't cut a hole. It would just be a line. You got very upset that you wouldn't get to see inside my stomach. Even more when I told you you probably wouldn't be allowed into the operating room if they had to.
My mind is turning increasingly to the birth of this baby, to memories of your birth. The other morning I read your birth story for the first time in probably more than four years. It had a lot of details I'd forgotten. My biggest memories are how scared I was, throughout my labour, that you wouldn't live. And how much it hurt after I was forced to lie down, because standing or sitting caused your heart rate to plummet. And the unbearably long, long silence between when the anesthesiologist said quietly, "It's a boy," and your first glorious cry that was the most beautiful song I'd ever heard.
I didn't stop shaking until they brought you to me maybe two hours after the surgery. I'd forgotten that they took you away again after that, for something close to five hours I wrote in your birth story. When I think about my reasons for attempting a VBAC with this baby, that seven hours of separation is what I think I will hold onto. I think we spent your first two years making up for those seven hours. But now you are a confident, articulate child. You didn't struggle much with the transition to school, beyond the fact that it's hard work for you and you don't particularly LIKE working all day. You've told me repeatedly you just want to play all day. I get it, I really do. I haven't told you that you have about sixty more years to go of it. Who knows, maybe you'll find another path.
I love hearing about your thoughts and how you see the world. Like when you forgot how long it takes to grow a baby, about a month after telling your entire class in daycare and all your friends' parents that it takes nine months. You told me you'd put the detail in your one-day mind instead of your forever mind, which was why you'd forgotten.
This letter is more about me than you, and I'm sorry. But I've been really wanting to record some of these conversations we've been having, and the keen insights you share. You think about things in a way I'm not sure other just-five-year-olds think. It seems to me you know more about things, you make deeper connections between things. But maybe I'm biased.
Wherever your spirit was before you joined us, whoever you were and whenever it was, precisely, that you joined us, I thank you for picking us. Life with you is more everything than it ever was before.
Love Mom
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
bedtime convo
Tonight as I sat on Wheels's bed and let him rub my belly, he said, "My hands just LOVE your belly. But they don't know you. They don't have eyes. They don't have eyes or a mouth or a nose, so they don't know you. But I know you."
"But they're part of you, aren't they? And they sure know my belly," I said.
"Yes, they think your belly is their playground, and they LOVE to play on it."
"Good night," I said. "I'll see you in the morning."
"But my hands aren't done playing on their playground yet!"
"But they're part of you, aren't they? And they sure know my belly," I said.
"Yes, they think your belly is their playground, and they LOVE to play on it."
"Good night," I said. "I'll see you in the morning."
"But my hands aren't done playing on their playground yet!"
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