Picture this: On a regular Tuesday I'm presenting before an 8am class of droopy-eyed college freshmen when I am halted by a surge of contractions. My water breaks as I hug my belly with my right hand and grip the desk with my left. My students jump to action and the whole thing replays for a week on the five o'clock news. That is not how it goes down for me. All three times have been the same. Water breaks in the privacy of my home. I finish packing my bag. James drives me to the hospital and I'm not even panting. No contractions. Induction by way pitocin (booooo). Pain. Pain. A lot of pain. Too much pain, too late for drugs. Push. Push. Puuuuuush. Baby.
The first act is always the same - so much so that each delivery is one four year long blur.
However, there is variety in the second act of this harrowing experience. I call it Mo's Mental Break or The Aftermath. I remember each distinctly.
Madeline - deep, irrational, exhaustion-fueled rage.
Myka - suffocating anxiety that I wore like a shroud
Jesse - two full days of tears as I relived the horror of the afterbirth (placenta and such) delivery.
Unlike my unremarkable start to labor the second act is lonely, unpredictable and, this time, had the dramatic flair I never hoped for.
My doctor (the on-call OBGyn) had man-hands and not simply because he is a man. He used every muscle and tendon in his giant paws to mash my abdomen seconds after I delivered my son. I wondered if he was angry with me for moving to much during suture placement or maybe for interrupting his lunch or something. The experience seemed suddenly archaic . I could not keep my feet in the stirrups because the pain was too intense. The room was eerily quiet as the female nurses and my helpless husband looked on sympathetically. And I know this part was for my benefit. And I know he was doing his job and probably knows so much more than I do but man did this hurt. So, for the first time in eight hours of labor and pushing I writhed uncontrollably and screamed out loud but it was like no one heard me because this moment would not end or so it seemed.
That caused the fracture.
A quirk about me is that I do not ask for ask help because that means that admittance of incompetence and I personally don't do incompetence. Although, nothing drives one out of their comfort zone like trying to feed a newborn at 2a.m. I tried to pump some milk for my hungry baby and it hurt like knives slicing across flesh. That's what caused the break.
I texted my dear friend, a woman, a mom of a newborn, a doula, my ally. I knew she was probably up battling another sleepless night of nursing. She soon responded giving me space to complain about breast-feeding and permission to give my baby formula in a bottle. However, the pain of pumping had already opened the door to postpartum PTSD. Memories of Dr. Man-Hands overcame me and I cried so hard on the edge of my bed that I couldn't catch my breath. I laid my baby in his bassinet, muzzled my mouth with cupped hand as not to wake anyone, and moved to the bathroom. I broke again. I moved to the couch and sat there for three hours paralyzed by the thought of it all. The next day my friend, my rescuer, came over. She had truly heard me; heard my heart cry and my body lament. She answered with a five minute visit to my home and a supply of lactation snacks, nipple cream and hug. She gave me the gift of validation and solidarity. I felt loved.
Pregnancy is supposed to be awkwardly fun. Labor 'n delivery is supposed to be painful but hopeful. It all has become so overly normalized. Commonplace. There is always an unfair positive spin that silences naysayers like me. Three children means three times I have felt the need to rush through the second act thinking no one would believe how bad it truly hurt or how sad I really was, so why bother. I mean, I have a beautiful blessing of a baby, after all, so it couldn't be that bad - how are we to respond to that, people?
As the story goes, I had a baby on Sept 23rd and, like so many women, ran into deep sadness a week later. I traversed this familiar dark place a few times with friends, wonderful women, who reject my cheery filtered answers. They see the doleful expression behind my smile. The doula, some social workers, ministers, licensed counselors, educators - they are all highly educated women who are trained to speak truth while helping people find freedom. They are masterful in their work. They are also instruments of grace. They are God's gifts to me. I do not deserve such friendship and I know that God was thinking of me when He made them. They are how I got through the past four years. They have not made the road any less tortuous, pregnancy is what it is and that is ok, but they usher in the presence of God, His love, His peace - until the ride is over.
(To those women -you know who you are- I LOVE you and I am so grateful for you)