From the Glorious Trenches

It's hard to believe I am seven weeks postpartum! (When I started this entry, I was in my fifth week… welcome to the busy life of caring for a newborn.)  In some ways, it feels like it's gone by in the blink of an eye, and in other ways I can't even bring life before Nina into focus in my mind.

I don't even know where to start.  I suppose I'd like to record the rest of my labor experience before delving into post-delivery news and thoughts.  My labor can be divided into three separate experiences, which were all memorably challenging (yes, aka, horribly painful!), life changing, and spiritually transformative.  I hold gratitude for all of them.  The first was my labor at home: managing and tracking contractions for much of the day and the entire night on April 4th and early morning April 5th.  The second was my labor and delivery at the hospital, and the third was my postpartum hemorrhage.  Throughout the entire labor and birthing process I would say there were no fewer than five significant curveballs that my husband and I handled: 1. Admission issue, 2. Baby’s heart rate issue and subsequent need for epidural (potential emergency C-section scare),  3. Continued heart rate issue and subsequent need for 1x use of vacuum during pushing, 4. Presence of moderate meconium, 5. Postpartum hemorrhage and re-stitching without helpful effects of epidural.

(If you read my previous entry, you already know about #1-- my admission to the hospital was rather tumultuous, which was completely unexpected.  I thought going to the hospital would be the easy part.)

As I described in my previous post, I started having mild contractions early Saturday morning.  I woke up with what felt like menstrual cramps and seriously craving cinnamon French toast.  I had made plans with my good friend Katie to have brunch at our regular weekend spot that morning and couldn't bring myself to believe a) I was really in labor (on my actual due date!), and b) I might have to miss having breakfast and my usual latte.  As I lay awake in those early morning hours carefully paying attention to what my body was doing, I started to feel a little excited but also didn’t want to make too much out of it because I’d been having some other early labor signs earlier in the week and they hadn’t amounted to the birth of a baby! (I’d been “passing the mucus plug”—quite possibly the grossest term in the world—little by little throughout the week, and had also been feeling nauseated.)

After twiddling my thumbs (and taking long, luxurious naps) for the previous two weeks while off of work using vacation days, I just didn’t believe that I was going to give birth that day.  I had convinced myself this baby would never actually introduce herself to us; it all felt too surreal.  I was so excited for Baby Girl’s arrival, in fact too excited and anxious for my own good, and to balance things out my mind was tricking me into thinking I’d be pregnant forever.

All of this meant that at 8:04am I texted Katie:

“OK, feel free to say no but how would you feel about meeting earlier than we planned?  I’ve started to have mild cramps…POSSIBLY contractions…irregular…but I still really want French toast and to see you.”

Seven weeks later we’re laughing about this, and I have a feeling we’ll continue to do so for many years to come as we look back on Nina’s arrival.  Contractions or no contractions, I needed my breakfast and my dear friend.  If Nina’s anything like me when she grows up, she’ll be able to understand!

I made it through a delicious brunch with nothing more than occasional discomfort and then came home to rest and read on the couch.  It wasn’t long before I started to feel sick… so began episodes of diarrhea and nausea.  I decided to lie down and try to nap, which I did until I was rudely awakened by what definitely felt like a real contraction.  During the late afternoon and evening I continued to feel contractions and they started getting more intense and somewhat more consistent. Galo and I were timing the contractions and getting numbers anywhere from five to ten minutes apart.  My water hadn’t broken but I was paranoid and kept wondering if maybe it had!  We decided to take a walk down the street to the corner store to help manage the pain, hopefully move things along, and of course, buy more snacks for the hospital as I had already broken into our saved stash.  I had to laugh when the store owner, seeing I was pregnant, offered us congratulations and asked when I was due! 

At that point, the only people I’d alerted were my parents and my matron of honor, Angela.  I didn’t want anyone else to know because I was afraid we’d start getting bombarded with calls and texts asking for minute-by-minute labor updates.  While at the store I got a text from Angela giving me the head’s up that somehow the news had been leaked: she received a text from someone asking, “Did you hear? Maria’s having contractions”… ah, the wonders of growing up in a small town!

When we got back from our walk, my mother and brother (soon-to-be Nonni and Uncle Dan) were at our apartment to offer their company and support.  Mom helped record contractions as I painfully bounced around on an exercise ball and Daniel searched the web for Easter-appropriate middle names for his niece, helping us to settle on Anastasia. 

By 9:30pm my contractions were increasing in intensity and regularity and I was dying to get the show on the road and head to the hospital.  I knew the doctor would want me to wait until “5-1-1” to call, but I had been told I tested positive for Group B Strep and that it would be important to receive antibiotics at least four hours prior to delivery, so I was hoping that would be my ticket to come in earlier than was typical.  (Boy, was I wrong.)  I called the on-call doctor who said since I was a first-time mom I had tons of labor ahead of me (not exactly what I wanted to hear!).  She advised me to take a warm shower, drink some tea, and try to relax… no comment.

So Mom and Dan headed home.  And so commenced the longest, most painful night of my life.  Looking back, I remember from our birthing class that one way to tell you’re in active labor is that you aren’t able to sleep through contractions.  Well… I was up the entire night and there was NO way I could have fallen or stayed asleep.  We deliriously timed the contractions all night long and kept getting numbers anywhere from four to eleven minutes apart.  It was crazy-making.  We would start out a new hour with three contractions four or five minutes apart, and then they would jump to six or seven minutes apart.  I would have torn my hair out if I wasn’t already in enough pain. 

By 6:00am Easter morning we had recorded just about a full hour of contractions five minutes apart.  Amidst hugs and high-fives I called the doctor again, utterly overjoyed to be just about ready to head to the hospital (or so I thought… see previous entry for the rest of that story!).

I was admitted to the hospital around 10:00am with my amazing birthing team: Mom, Galo, and baby Nina, just seven hours away from being born.  I was thrilled to hear I was already five centimeters dilated and 80% effaced when they examined me in Triage.  We hunkered down in the delivery room and met my incredible L&D nurse, Katherine.  Kind, empathetic, and humorous are just three of the positive adjectives I can use to describe Katherine.  My heart is full of gratitude thinking about how God paired us up with her that fateful Easter.  I felt like she was my gift for having had faith in God all throughout my pregnancy. 

He knew I had a potentially upsetting labor and delivery ahead of me.  As soon as I was hooked up to the fetal heart monitor, they observed that Nina’s heart rate wasn’t bouncing back up effectively enough after each contraction and they couldn’t be sure why.  It could have been that she was clutching the umbilical cord in her tiny hand, the cord was wrapped around her ankle, or any number of other scenarios.  They said they would have to monitor her closely and I would have to remain immobilized on my side until things hopefully straightened out. The presence of a seemingly moderate amount of meconium also complicated matters.  It wasn’t likely, but an emergency C-section wasn’t out of the question.  The thought of that possibility was heartbreaking after enduring so many hours of labor and already clearing so many emotional hurdles.

But somehow, I didn’t panic.  Maybe I was distracted by the pain of the contractions.  Maybe I couldn’t completely focus on the information due to being totally sleep deprived. Or maybe it was just a miraculous experience of calm faith, knowing fear served no purpose in that moment.  All I could do was embrace the task at hand and trust God to deliver me from my anxiety and pain through the delivery of His child.  No matter what happened, it was my responsibility to accept God’s will for our daughter and to do what I could with what I was given.

What I was given… was a whole lot of pain.  It was terrible having to stay on my side.  At my birthing class I learned about all sorts of natural pain management tools and was eager to use any and all of them, but really couldn’t under the circumstances.  I had planned to be moving around, changing position, using the tub and birthing ball, etc.  But I had to stay put.  Things became so unbearable that the doctor came by and started to launch into, “I would really recommend an epidural at this point; it doesn’t mean you’re weak or less of a woman, it’s just…” To which I quickly interrupted: “You don’t need to convince me!  I’m convinced!”  I had never planned to reject an epidural if it was needed. I just wanted to see how things went and did want to challenge myself to use natural methods first.  But most of those were off the table as I writhed around in pain in one single position!  I have always been a fan of quick, reasonable decisions, and this was one of them.

Once the decision was made I couldn’t get the epidural fast enough.  Fortunately my hospital always has an anesthesiologist on site and he was great.  And the epidural?  FANTASTIC.  I could still tell when a contraction was coming on, but the difference was like night and day.  Talk about gratitude.  All I could think about was, What did women DO before this was an option?!

Around 3:30pm I was ten centimeters and ready to push (although my body seemed to feel ready to push even before then which was an odd—and unpleasant— feeling).  The doctor (Dr. Parent… how perfect!) coached me through my first couple of pushes and then said that it’s normal for first time Moms to push for up to three hours, so she’d be back later.  I hoped and prayed it wouldn’t take that long!  (And it didn’t… Nina was born after pushing for about an hour and a half.)

I soon learned that pushing is hard work, epidural or no epidural.  But Katherine, Mom, and Galo were wonderful cheerleaders (supportive but not obnoxious).  I chose to believe Katherine when she told me that she had women who came in saying they ran marathons who didn’t push as effectively as I did.  She called me an “athlete,” which will probably forever change the definition of that word for me. 

But despite all my best efforts, Nina wasn’t arriving quickly enough for their liking.  Dr. Parent came back and said that although I was doing a great job, the baby’s heart rate still wasn’t where they wanted it and therefore she needed to be delivered as soon as possible.  I agreed to the use of a vacuum, and thankfully they only had to use it once in order for it to be helpful.  Katherine assured me that if Nina’s heart rate hadn’t been an issue that I would definitely have been able to deliver her successfully on my own without the help of a vacuum.   


And then, at 5:03pm, it happened.  Nina Anastasia entered the world.  Because of the meconium issue, the pediatrician scooped her up to examine her and I had to wait to officially meet my girl.  I was impatient but also delirious from the extreme pain of the final pushes and the overwhelming emotions that followed.  Relief, disbelief, joy, pride, GRATITUDE.  And then when I finally had her, skin-to-skin: tears of love.  Powerful, unconditional, utterly selfless, timeless, limitless.  Love. 

Time stood still.  I was more myself in that moment than I have ever been.  What I mean is, I was my real self.  The self who knows I deserve love, compassion, and gentleness.  The self who believes in good and doesn’t fear the unknown.   The self with bottomless capacity for creativity and wisdom.  The self who understands the full scope of her strength and embraces it with unapologetic pride.  That self took her first real breaths as Nina breathed hers.

**

As we drove home from the hospital two days later, Galo in the driver’s seat, me in the backseat with our brand new daughter, the song “Thousand Years” came on the radio.  We were instantly transported back to our wedding day two autumns ago, flooded with the memory of me singing the song to him at our reception.  That particular song had felt like the right choice, but at the time I wasn’t entirely sure why.  But on that car ride home, prayerful tears streaming down my face, I finally understood the song’s meaning. 

Time stands still
Beauty in all she is
I will be brave
I will not let anything take away what's standing in front of me
Every breath, every hour has come to this

One step closer

I have died every day, waiting for you
Darling, don't be afraid, I have loved you for a thousand years
I'll love you for a thousand more

And all along I believed I would find you
Time has brought your heart to me, I have loved you for a thousand years
I'll love you for a thousand more

Love is timeless.  God is timeless.  My love for Galo has always existed, long before I knew him, long before either of us was even born.  And Nina has always existed.  Right now she is on loan to us, and God’s love enables us to be up for the challenge and to fully experience the joy she brings us. 

Because of Him, I am a mother.  Because of Him, I am brave. 

Welcome to the World, Nina Anastasia!

Our miracle Nina Anastasia arrived on April 5th, Easter Sunday.  We decided to change her middle name to one that means "resurrection" in honor of Easter and all the blessings that new life and new beginnings hold.  She is a gift from God, a dream come true. She was born at 5:03pm and was 7 lbs 3 oz, 19 inches.

I am eager to share the amazing story of my labor and the delivery of Nina, as well as the many stories we already have just in these last two weeks postpartum.  However, due to lack of energy/time I will just start out by copying & pasting the feedback I'm including with the hospital survey regarding the first curveball of the day on April 5th. (I'm excluding specific hospital/doctor/nurse info.)

April 18, 2015

Re: Admissions Process

I am choosing to share my story in this amount of detail in the hopes that this won’t happen to another soon-to-be-mom and patient of Mt X.  Once admitted my experience was extremely positive and I am endlessly grateful that I was able to come in when all was said and done, but the stress of initially being told I would have to go to another hospital (due to "lack of space" for me at Mt X) was traumatic and started my birthing process off on an unnecessarily emotional note.

I began having mild contractions on Saturday morning, April 4^th, around 6:30am.  They were very sporadic throughout the morning and early afternoon, though I was also experiencing other signs of early labor, such as passing the mucus plug and episodes of diarrhea and nausea.  During the late afternoon and evening they started getting more intense and somewhat more consistent.  By 9:30pm they were continuing to become more intense and were getting more regular.  I was timing the contractions and was getting numbers anywhere from 5-10 minutes apart.  My water had not broken.  I know it’s typical to wait until “5-1-1” to call the hospital, but I had been told I tested positive for Group B Strep and that it would be important to receive antibiotics at least 4 hours prior to delivery, so I called the on-call doctor at 9:30pm Saturday night and spoke with Dr H.   She said my contractions weren’t consistent enough to warrant coming in, regardless of being Group B Strep positive.  She said since I was a first-time mom there was little to no chance they would miss the antibiotic window.** She advised me to take a warm shower, drink some tea, and try to relax.

I was up the entire night with increasingly painful contractions.  I could not sleep through them.  My husband and I timed the contractions all night long and kept getting numbers anywhere from 4—11 minutes apart.  It was extremely frustrating.  We would start out a new hour with three contractions 4 or 5 minutes apart, and then they would jump to 6 or 7 mins apart.  I was in a lot of pain.  By 6:00am Sunday morning April 5^th (Easter Sunday), we recorded just about a full hour of contractions 5 minutes apart.  I couldn’t wait any longer and called Dr H again, overjoyed to be just about ready to head to the hospital (or so I thought). 

However, when I informed Dr H of the status of things, she told me that there were no available rooms for me and that I would have to go to another hospital.  I was in shock.  My OB is Dr W, I had participated in a day-long birthing class at the hospital, went on a tour of the Birthing Center, and attended a “Meet the Doctors” night.  Mt X was where I had always planned to deliver and was the hospital I had counted upon. 

I asked if I could at least come into Triage at Mt X and she said no.  I mentioned that at the “Meet the Doctors” night someone had asked if there could ever be a scenario in which a Mt X patient would be turned away from Labor & Delivery due to shortage of rooms; they had said no, that space would be made.  Dr H still insisted there was no room for me. She did not offer sympathy or regret for my situation or reassure me that my records would be sent to another hospital to ensure I received the best care possible.  I began to cry and gave the phone to my husband.  He tried to get more information and was finally told that they would call us back in about an hour to let us know if there was any room for us at that time.

(It later occurred to us that the issue was likely not that there weren’t available rooms, but that there wasn’t enough available staff due to the Easter holiday.  Once on the postpartum unit around 5:30pm that evening, we noticed several free rooms, which we had been told could be used as L&D rooms in the event of a room shortage.  The shortage of staff would also explain why Dr H was telling us I couldn’t even come into Triage to be examined.)

While waiting for Dr H’s return call, we tried to wrap our minds around the distinct possibility of having to get ready to go deliver at another hospital.  Dr H called us back in about an hour and a half and said in another 30 minutes or so we could contact nurse Kathy to inquire about the possibility of coming in.  When we called Kathy, she confirmed we could come in.  By the time I arrived at Triage around 10:00am and was examined, I was 5cm dilated and 80% effaced.  Once on L&D, apologies were offered to us “for the mix-up.”

**I was later told in L&D it’s possible I could have missed the antibiotic window after all; I really needed to come in eight hours prior to delivery, not four, because I needed two doses in order for the antibiotics to be maximally effective.  I was in L&D from approximately 10:30am-5:03pm when I delivered my daughter (about seven hours).

As I said, once admitted my experience was extremely positive, especially with L&D nurse Katherine, postpartum nurse Stacy, and Dr P who delivered our daughter and took care of me when I had a postpartum hemorrhage.  If I hadn’t been permitted to come to Mt X, I would have missed out on the excellent care I received there.  In the future, please make sure you have adequate staffing on holidays to avoid putting patients in this position.

The Other Notes

Ooommm... Monday morning of my second week off of work.  I did a few dishes, took a shower, got dressed, made the bed, started two loads of laundry, wrote a grocery list, kissed my husband goodbye and ate a lovely breakfast of pineapple, cantaloupe, grapes, banana, scrambled eggs, wheat toast, coffee and a tall glass of water, all before 9:30am.  Not bad for a girl who's about to pop!  (Of course, now I'm ready to go back to bed...)

I thought I'd be compelled to write last week during my first official week at home, but as it turns out, I was compelled to sleep.  Sleep, nest, eat, rest, repeat.

Now it really is just a waiting game.  I'm trying to find the balance between enjoying this relaxing time free from my regular responsibilities and preparing for my life to be turned utterly upside-down.  It's a tricky place to find mentally, especially when I have no idea when this little munchkin is going to actually arrive!

However, one thing's for sure: Even though I feel a little lost and strange not going to work (and not knowing how long this pre-baby time period will last...will she come this week, or not for another two...or longer?!), it was the right decision for me to choose March 20th as my last work day.  In my previous position as a case manager for the elderly, which was a very high-stress job prone to burn out, I attended a workshop about self-care and compassion fatigue and one particular concept from that day has stayed with me since:  the concept that it is actually less selfish to bow out of responsibilities when you start to have a negative attitude and/or are becoming burnt out.  Removing responsibilities from your plate is actually kinder and more beneficial to the people around you than sticking it out past your breaking point.  When you're bitter about something, the best thing to do is get distance from it.  Of course, depending on the situation, this isn't always possible, but in situations where it is possible it's definitely the way to go.  I saw what my previous job was doing to me and thankfully had enough insight to see that I was no longer going to be able to serve my clients and colleagues effectively if I stayed; I was also blessed to be supported by my then-fiance and had the option to pursue another path.

Although the reasons for parting with my current job are very different, I could see that pushing myself right up until my due date would not be beneficial to anyone.  Between the commute and chaos of the office, I was reaching my limit.  I resented waddling out to the waiting room to bring a patient into my office to talk about helping them find a therapist.  Hopefully this wasn't apparent to them, but even if it wasn't I felt guilty about it.  I didn't want to feel resentful of people who needed my help.  Similarly, I felt confident that I should take a step back from my cantoring/band commitments at church around the same time that I left work.  Because I value my musical outlets so much, part of me selfishly wanted to stick it out a few more weeks even though I was becoming bitter about certain aspects of my involvement as a band member and even as a parishioner.  But gratefully, a larger part of me knew enough to remove myself from the equation until a time when I can be more fully present as a peaceful and joyful contributor to the project.

I know that change, even positive or exciting change (like bringing a child into the world!) involves loss of some kind and can be painful.  This time right now for me is about being aware of that struggle while welcoming the unknown and letting go of certain crutches that don't have a place in my new life as a mother.  This is a time of risk-taking, of bravely singing new notes and trusting they will create a powerful song.

When I was young, I was in the car with my parents listening to the radio and I asked my musician father, "Dad, what are those other notes they're singing?"  He explained to me that those notes were harmonies to the melody.  I'm not sure I understood what he meant at the time, but as I grew up I often found myself picking up on the harmonies in the songs I listened to and preferring to sing those notes.  Since joining the band, I have even begun to trust in my natural ability to harmonize on the spot.

There's something wonderful about embracing those "other notes," even if they don't always come out right.  Something wonderful about being those other notes in life, the ones that make the song even more beautiful.  Being the harmony also acknowledges the need for others in the song.  I hope I can teach my daughter that she doesn't need to be centerstage to shine her light.  She can exude the fullness of harmony, she can be those other notes of the song and find even more meaning in her life than she would have otherwise found always being the melody.  That's what my parents taught me.  I dedicate this blog post to them, but especially to my father-- Thank You for the Music.

Play the Ball Where the Monkey Drops It

Galo: Thank you for doing the dishes.
Me: No problem, babe.  Thanks for getting the groceries.

This is a rather typical exchange between me and my husband.  I don't usually think much about it, but when we said these words to each other the other night, I thought, "Wow.  Together for six and a half years and we still make sure not to take each other for granted."  We have a real partnership and so much of it is grounded in gratitude.  It makes me happy to think that someday our children will witness us having interactions of this nature, casual but appreciative.  It reminds me of a phrase we incorporated into our wedding vows: "I take you for better or worse, but not for granted."

It's very easy to take people and life circumstances for granted.  For me, it sometimes feels like I need to take certain things for granted because otherwise I would constantly be questioning the "security" of my blessings and feeling anxious.  At some point, I find it necessary to settle into my version of "normal," while at the same time trying to being as open as I can be to change.  It doesn't necessarily mean you're taking something or someone for granted just because you allow yourself the luxury of enjoying its presence in the now.  (It has taken me some time to realize that, similar to the way it has taken me years to come to believe that it's permissible to hope for-- and even assume-- the best outcome.) 

When I posted my last entry at the end of January, I had no way of knowing what February 2015 would hold (tons of snow) and the gratitude challenges it would present!  It was a rough month, which is why I couldn't bring myself to write during that time, although in retrospect writing and venting would probably have helped.  If my information is up-to-date, we are a mere couple of inches away from a record-breaking winter of snow, which was dumped on us all in the span of basically one month.  It's been a tough time to be pregnant, specifically pregnant and someone who commutes via public transportation.  Initially I was overjoyed to be avoiding the heat of summer while pregnant, but I quickly learned that winters in New England (along with Massachusetts public transit) are not a recipe for prenatal happiness either.  Since this is my first pregnancy, it's difficult for me to know if my third trimester would still have been this emotionally trying if the weather had been more cooperative (and if people around me were less irritated with life themselves and able to have more compassion for a pregnant lady trying to get from point A to point B!).  Either way, the general sense of calm I enjoyed and took so much pride in has been much more of a challenge to achieve in this final trimester.  I have been more anxious, but that's been the most manageable concern-- the irritability, anger and frustration have been the real problem!  I've reached the end of my rope multiple times.  I suppose that it's good practice for motherhood though... I'm sure to reach the end of my rope repeatedly and now I know I can get to that point and still find a way to carry on, usually with at least some trace of grace.

It's been disconcerting to me to feel so angry sometimes because I'm not used to it and I feel guilty about it, especially now that we're in the season of Lent and I feel like I should be extra-grateful and reflective.  But there's no way around it: this year is a different ballgame!  I can only be as grateful and reflective as my hormones and energy allow.  It is often necessary for me to turn my brain off and just be.  As someone who draws meaning and motivation from the pursuit of insight and wisdom, I've had to learn to have faith that those moments of clarity will still come-- I just can't force them during the times I simply have to survive.  If I try to, that will only increase my frustration and set off a vicious cycle.

These final weeks of pregnancy (hard to believe I'm 35 weeks, and yet I could not be more ready...) have also forced me to be more assertive and make myself and my needs a priority.  I always knew I was someone who tended toward taking care of others, but I don't think I ever realized just how deep that goes until now.  I'm now realizing that it's not just that I want to care for others, I don't want to inconvenience others, and there's a big difference.  I've gained practice reality-checking with my husband about what I can and can't handle and what is reasonable for him to ask of me.  (To be fair, this is his first pregnancy too and he doesn't necessarily know what my limitations are.)  I've had to blatantly tell strangers on the bus that I need their seat.  I've set boundaries with the musicians I work with at church as I try to navigate my participation in a new spiritual project.  I've wrestled with others' opinions about what my future as a parent should look like and have made peace with the fact that not everyone is going to agree with my choices.  One of the hardest settings for me to be assertive continues to be my doctors' offices, but I'm working on it for the sake of my health and my baby's well-being.

I've even had to be be assertive with myself at times, for example, when I'm looking in the mirror and judging myself for...what?  Looking pregnant?  Being "unattractive"?  In those moments, I take a deep breath, allow myself no more than a minute or two to feel upset, and then assertively think, "Nope.  I'm not doing this.  I'm not putting myself down when my body, mind and spirit are working this hard to bring a child into the world."

I've been assertive with myself when my worry starts to gain momentum, when all of a sudden I'm resisting change, questioning my decisions, struggling with the fact that it will no longer just be the two of us, wondering what my relationship with my daughter will be like, worrying that she won't be safe and happy in her life...  During those times, I've tried to remind myself that worrying and trying to predict or control the future is a waste of energy, time, and passion.  Worrying truly is like praying for an outcome you do not want.  Prayer is an investment in what is ultimately good.  Worry is an investment in something else entirely. 

A wise influence in my life recently advised me to "Play the ball where the monkey drops it."  Once the English had colonized India they yearned for recreation and built a golf course in Calcutta.  They were then faced with a unique obstacle.  Monkeys would drop out of the trees, scurry across the course, and seize the golf balls.  They would play with them, tossing them here and there.  At first, the golfers tried to control the monkeys, but finally they gave into reality and developed a rather novel ground rule:  Play the ball where the monkey drops it.

Radical Acceptance

Gratitude is easy today... I met with a nutritionist at the hospital where I'll be delivering and it was an entirely positive experience!  I was nervous for her input; I worried about being judged, reprimanded or hearing information that would make me feel more anxious or less capable than I already sometimes feel.  But that wasn't the case at all.  Instead, I received validation, encouragement, praise, and reasonable suggestions presented with kindness.  I left feeling empowered and as though my bravery and openness were rewarded--for that I'm extremely grateful.

Flexibility is the name of the game when you're pregnant (and in life in general) and I'm proud to say that aside from the occasional stressed-out moment of overwhelming desire to have control,  flexibility has been a regular practice for me, one that I'm getting better at each day.  I'm finding that it actually comes relatively naturally to me!  (No one's more surprised by this than I am.)  It has resulted in even more gratitude and reasons to have faith in the future.  I'm hopeful that being flexible now during pregnancy bodes well for my ability to adjust as a parent. 

One example: When asked if I will be breast-feeding, I hear myself calmly saying, "I hope to, if all goes well."  That's not even a response I've had to carefully craft beforehand in order to be ready for the question; it's just the truth, and somehow I'm able to express it without second-guessing myself.  Amazing!  As a first-time mom, I truly do not know what to expect (yes, even though I have read What to Expect When You're Expecting) and I'm not going to pretend that my plans are set in stone.  Even if this was my second child, every pregnancy, birth, and baby is different.  My intuition is telling me to remain open and greet each moment when it arrives.  Never underestimate the power of confidently not giving question-askers definitive answers, my pregnant friends!  

I don't think my husband and I were adequately prepared for the amount of stress and tension that differences of opinion about child-rearing could cause within a family.  Since this is the first grandchild for both of our families, we delightfully focused on absorbing the excitement and joy that followed our pregnancy announcement.  But in the blink of an eye, weeks and months have gone by and we're finding family members have more to say on the subject of parenting as we inch closer and closer to our due date.  It's natural to hope and dream that a new addition to a family would bring nothing but bundles of love and happiness, but it's also realistic to recognize that new arrivals can dredge up long-standing disagreements and hurts between its preexisting members.  Knowing how to sensitively and lovingly address these issues is especially challenging when my first priority is preparing to be responsible for a helpless newborn.  She will arrive among us in a completely innocent state; none of the pain or anger that may hover around the family from previous conflict will be her fault.

I recently heard a coworker use the phrase "radical acceptance."  I don't think he meant to use it in a profound way at the time, but it stayed with me.  After all, what is acceptance if it isn't radical?  Acceptance of any circumstance beyond our control is likely to be a challenge that requires a leap of faith, perhaps even placing our own understanding on the back burner.  Another person's perspective is dependent on a lifetime of experiences and interactions, many of which we may know nothing about.  Therefore, I'm wondering if it's possible for me to exercise radical acceptance of those perspectives, particularly if I wish to maintain loving relationships with the people who hold them.  (It doesn't mean I have to agree with them-- just let go of the desire to change them.)  Perhaps that's the best way to cope with troubled relationships at a time when the most significant relationship in one's life is just on the cusp of beginning: the relationship between parent and child, with all of its responsibility and wonder.

I pray that God would allow me and my husband to continue our journey of openness, grant us experiences of radical acceptance for the sake of nurturing love within our families, and help us to teach our daughter to do the same.

30 weeks...

Well, I had a feeling life would suddenly seem to be on fast-forward after the holidays and once Galo returned home from his trip, and I was right!  The last couple of weeks have been a whirlwind of anxiety and excitement, a mixture of frustration and elation, anger and relief.  There have been some days of feeling blue and overwhelmed and others of pure confidence and pride.  I suppose this is just a preview of the emotional roller-coaster still to come.

With so much unfolding so quickly, it's easy to get caught up in the next item on the "to do" list instead of fully experiencing each instance of gratitude, of which there are many.  The first piece of happy news arrived shortly after my last post: my glucose test showed I was in the normal range and subsequently I have NOT been diagnosed with gestational diabetes!  One thing's for sure: I have learned so much from this pregnancy about not jumping to conclusions, and it has reframed the way I think about my personal health and wellness.  First of all, my health really does feel more "personal."  I am less inclined to compare myself to others and am more eager to experience things the way my individual body and mind experience them.  In the recent past, hearing or reading that I am "at higher risk" for [fill in the blank] triggered my anxiety and significantly threatened my sense of wellbeing.  Now, I take it with a grain of salt, knowing that even if I am considered to be in a "higher risk" category I am still a unique individual with a unique experience of health and I cannot be put into a box.  I can have faith in my health and be just as prepared for smooth sailing as I am for stormy seas.

Over the years I constructed an image of myself as "unwell" or "unworthy" in a number of ways, emotionally and physically, perhaps as a way of being better prepared for that to actually be the case.  The logic behind it is flawed, to say the least.  It is not God's intention for me to build walls of lies around myself as protection against an unknown future.  And living life that way certainly flies in the face of gratitude.  While I was searching for love, I told myself I would end up alone as a way of being prepared for that outcome.  Once I was happily married, I told myself starting a family would present a lot of challenges and I might never be able to have children.  Once I became pregnant (easily!), I told myself I would have a difficult pregnancy both physically and emotionally and run into health issues, many of which could be directly tied to my own "irresponsibility."  Well, I'm almost 30 weeks along now and my pregnancy has been wonderfully uneventful; the most difficult symptoms have been fatigue and a mere two or so weeks of back issues in my second trimester.  My anxiety is under control.  The few tears I have shed have been due to situational triggers and not feelings of hopelessness or depression.

It would be a tragedy not to learn from this, to not take this moment to be done with this twisted understanding of how to "protect" myself.  Expecting the worst from the world and believing I am broken does not protect me.  Instead, it lowers my self-esteem, denies my blessings, limits my growth, and would certainly be an unfortunate perspective to model for my child.  Why not believe I am whole and complete in God and draw a sense of protection and peace from that truth?

"Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your Heavenly Father feeds them.  Are you not much more valuable than they?  And who of you by being worried can add a single hour to his life?  Your Heavenly Father knows you have need.  So do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will care for itself."
~Matthew 6:26-34

New Year, Same Gratitude

Praise God, I made it to my third trimester!!!

Although the New Year is a time of new beginnings and a fresh start, this particular January is clearly signaling to me that I'm heading down the home stretch and getting ready to wrap things up.  My due date is three months from today, and my husband returns from his journey to his home country of Ecuador in four days.  He and I began the new year in separate countries and it has been difficult for me to be apart from him for the last two weeks, but soon he'll be back and I feel like we'll officially be ready to prepare for our baby's arrival.  We've been preparing emotionally for all these months, and very soon it will be time to prepare in practical ways.  It's very surreal, wildly exciting, and thoroughly terrifying.

It feels as though since Galo left on his trip, just in these last two weeks since Christmas, I am really pregnant.  I feel much bigger, more uncomfortable, and somewhat short of breath.  And this is definitely the most movement I've felt so far... I feel like my little one is catapulting herself against all corners of my stomach! It is amazing but pretty disconcerting, especially in the middle of the night or in the wee hours of the morning.  Now I'm even able to see my tummy move!  One unfortunate consequence of being "more" pregnant is fielding an increasing number of intrusive and sometimes hurtful comments and questions.  I've gotten, "You're carrying SO big!" "You're getting bigger by the day!" "That's gonna be a big baby!" "Are you sure there's only one in there?" "Is your husband especially tall?" (He isn't.) "Have you gained a lot of weight?"

As someone who has struggled with weight concerns and a troubled relationship with food for most of her life, I always thought pregnancy would be a freeing and enjoyable time for me, maybe even healing.  And in a lot of ways, it certainly has been.  I have let go in ways I never thought possible, and have maintained optimism and hope in the face of the hugest unknown in my life so far.  I have grown even more loving and connected to my husband, which I didn’t know was possible.  And I do in fact feel more connected to my own body in a positive way.  I feel very grateful to my body for allowing me the experience of being pregnant.

However, pregnancy is not the “free pass” that society makes it out to be.  There's a misconception that pregnant women can eat whatever they want and in unlimited quantities.  If anything, I feel more pressure and have an even greater fear of judgment and feelings of guilt.  Don’t get me wrong— as I write this I’m eating a chocolate glazed donut.  And it is delicious.  So my guilt can’t be that all-consuming.  But it’s there and it bothers me.

On the one hand, I'm constantly being told by friends, family, acquaintances and strangers alike, "You're pregnant! If ever there were a time to indulge, now is that time!"  (I heard this even more during the holidays.)  On the other hand, everything I read about pregnancy implores women to be the healthiest they have ever been for the sake of their unborn child.  If pre-pregnancy you were a woman who ate a fair diet and only exercised occasionally, you should now exercise daily and eat tons of fruits, vegetables, and other foods packed with essential nutrients. Yes, pregnancy causes a lot of fatigue, back aches and general all-over-body-aches, but exercising is a must for your health during pregnancy and also helps with labor.  Certainly don't drink alcohol or eat cold deli meats, sushi, unpasteurized cheese or juice, runny eggs, undercooked meats, or too much tuna, sugar, fat, caffeine, or white carbohydrates.  But eat to your heart's content!

Needless to say, I've gotten some mixed messages.

(This also applies to pampering oneself:  Pregnancy is a time to make yourself a priority and indulge in some guilt-free pampering.  Just note it may be detrimental to your unborn baby if you color your hair, use nailpolish, apply certain types of make-up, get certain treatments during a facial, or use harmful kinds of perfume or body lotions.  And massaging your feet the wrong way could trigger contractions and propel you into pre-term labor.  But otherwise, enjoy! No guilt!)

On top of the emotional and mental struggles I have historically had with food, physically, I have polycystic ovarian syndrome, which only seems to further convince me that my lifestyle is “wrong.”  I have been told that due to having PCOS, I am at greater risk for developing gestational diabetes.  (However, I was also told I would likely face fertility issues because of PCOS, which was not the case!)  I am very nervous for my glucose test next week, mostly because I am afraid that if I’m diagnosed with gestational diabetes I won’t be able to forgive myself… which alone should tell you I have a warped perspective on my condition.  When it comes down to it, I don’t think I have been adequately educated about PCOS.  I have tried to inform myself: I have done a substantial amount of reading and have tried to ask questions of my endocrinologist and OB-gyn.  But my visits with my doctors always feel too rushed, and out of fear of seeming “entitled” (to more information or better explanations...gasp!) I end up being a poor self-advocate.  Furthermore, reading about PCOS often triggers my anxiety.  At one point I decided to stop doing research online and instead order a book called The PCOS Diet Plan by Hillary Wright, M. Ed, RD.  I really liked what I read about her and the book seemed to be just what I needed.  I purchased it and read parts of it that were helpful, but it still increased my anxiety and I still felt like the literature was too generalized.  Knowing a few other women who have PCOS, I’ve found the syndrome manifests itself in very different ways and there is no one way to experience it.  In the end, I just kind of gave up and decided (somewhat unconsciously) that my experience of PCOS is my own fault and any health consequence that presents itself is a statement about my character and inability to employ self-control.

It doesn’t help to hear from doctors that based on my height (which is less than 5’1”), I “should have” weighed 110-120 pounds pre-pregnancy, and the fact that I weighed more than that subsequently means my weight gain during pregnancy should be limited to 15 pounds.  How do I tell a doctor that the last time I weighed 120 lbs was in the sixth grade, and the last time I weighed 100-110 lbs was in the eighth grade when I was engaged in anorexic behaviors?  As a thirteen-year-old, in order to lose 20+ lbs I had to dangerously restrict my calorie intake and exercise daily.  As a twenty-seven-year-old pre-pregnancy, how much more would I have had to restrict my eating in order to achieve the “correct” BMI, taking into account that my metabolism was likely slower at age 27 than at age 13?  And you’re telling me that’s healthy?  That I am more "at risk" for having a higher BMI?  I don't understand the logic behind ignoring individual differences.  Does it really make sense to expect every woman who is five feet tall (or any height) to weigh the same amount in order to be considered healthy?

I suppose the answer to my question "how do I tell a doctor..." is quite literally, tell my doctor.  Simply vocalize the above information.  Maybe the next time I’m presented with the BMI argument, I’ll have the courage to shed the light of my personal experience.  But I'm not sure.

What I do know is, like everything else in my life, I cannot face this issue head-on without God’s help and being fully aware of His love and encouragement of my health.  Health is a complicated concept, but it all comes down to being kind to yourself.  God models that kindness for a reason, so that we may follow His example, not just in expressing kindness to others but to ourselves.

"Do you not know that you are a temple of God and that the Spirit of God dwells in you? God's temple is sacred, and you together are that temple.  Therefore glorify God in your body."

~Corinthians 3:16