I walk in the door, sit down on the couch, and my sweet boy crawls up on my lap, puts his hand around my neck, and kisses me.
"Ah meet you, mama."
"I missed you too, honey!"
"Me happy to tee you, mama."
"I'm happy to see you too, boyzer!"
"You home! You home now."
"I love you, Donovan."
"Ah wuh loo too, Mama."
It would have been enough to hear these words from him once, but this scene has repeated more times than I can remember. My sweet boy has such sweet words for me.
Friday, May 20, 2011
Saturday, May 14, 2011
"Clearing up my perspective"
A while back, I posted a link on Facebook to http://www.cesareanscar.com as a request for people to think about how deeply cesarean affects women. Cesareanscar includes a whole range of emotional reactions to cesarean, but some people did not seem to visit the site and instead assumed what it might say. One comment on my Facebook page was a woman who had needed a hysterectomy as a young woman and who had not had any children reminding all those who have borne children to be thankful. I responded that women who have had cesareans are acutely aware and grateful for the existence and health of their child, and that this does not negate any other feelings they may have. Others added to the discussion enough for me to feel that perhaps I had not made my feelings on birth experience clear. These feelings are too lengthy for a Facebook comment. I wrote the following piece in response to this experience; because this was spurred by the link to cesareanscar.com, it focuses on cesarean experience but holds true for any birth experience.
Clearing up my perspective
In 1904, a woman gave birth to her first child. In 1906, her next child was born. Two girls. They would have had two brothers after them, but each time, the doctor came out of the birth room to ask the father whether he should save the mother or the child. Each time he opted to save the mother. (In order to do so, the doctor killed the baby and extracted it in pieces. If he had saved the baby, he would have performed a cesarean, assuming an outcome of maternal death due to the high mortality rate associated with it in those days.)
The first child was my grandmother. In 1939, she gave birth to her only child. She was told she should not have any more children should she wish to survive to raise my father.
Clearly, I understand the value of cesarean. Two dead babies and some never-conceived aunts and uncles would have been around if cesarean had been an option in those days. Today, many lives are saved by cesarean, sometimes mothers, sometimes babies. Many cesareans are performed just in case, when a question arises about the safety of continuing with the birthing process. Most of these babies would have been fine, but since we don't know which ones, it makes sense to do a cesarean when the risks of cesarean become better than the risks of continuing with the birthing process. Unfortunately, in our country, at least half of cesareans are done either before the risk ratio tilts in this direction, or after it does so due to previous unnecessary interventions. But let's pretend that every cesarean was life-saving, and heck, let's even pretend that cesarean carries no greater physical risk than vaginal birth.
I still would understand, support, and defend women who are upset by the experience. Why? Because humans are emotional beings that deserve to grieve when they need to, and to be supported in healing. And honestly, it is a reasonable thing to be disturbed by the experience of having the happiest day of your life also be a medical event. Many people are disturbed by medical experiences alone; I know many people who hate going to the dentist or having blood drawn. When something as emotional as having a baby involves invasive procedures, some people will be fine with that and some will be traumatized. When you add in the lack of respect that happens in some medicalized births for the incredible experience of your baby's entrance into the world, the number of traumatized women increases. It is possible to honor the miracle even in the context of surgery, and I wonder if the women who emerge from cesarean emotionally well were honored better. In fact, it's usually women feeling disregarded or disrespected that causes them the most trauma (whether birth is cesarean or vaginal).
The idea that the birth experience doesn't matter is the predominant idea in this country and it bothers me quite a lot. It is not the most important thing, this is true. The vast majority (99.99%?) of mothers would submit to any kind of birth experience for the sake of their baby. But we get into a slippery slope if we start to think that only outcome matters. If your house is broken into by a man who is going to kill you anyway, is it OK for him to rape you first? If you come home from a war, should you not be "allowed" to have PTSD from what you saw there, and just be grateful that you are alive? If you walk away from a car accident, is it ridiculous to have nightmares?
I believe that people should feel what they feel, and if you happen to think it would be better for them that they stop having those feelings, perhaps the best way to help them stop is to support them on a path through and out of their pain, rather than telling them it's inappropriate.
When resistance to the idea of birth trauma comes from women who have had similar experiences to those who do feel trauma, I wonder if they feel as though they are being judged. I certainly hope I do not do or say anything that feels like judgment to anyone. I find birthing women strong, capable, and brave regardless of how their babies get here, regardless of the choices they make around birth. I respect each and every one of you for who you are. I respect what you think and feel. I am blessed to know you. I enjoy seeing my friends feel strong. I dislike seeing strong, amazing women feel guilt, regret, disempowerment. I post information here not because I am judging anyone's experience but because I see two ways to help more women feel their strength - one by changing the birth culture to support more women finding their strength in birth rather than being knocked down, and two by listening to women talk through any negative feelings that have come up for them and being alongside them as they navigate the path to healing. All my posts about birth are meant to build up a healthy birth culture, not to knock down anyone who had a different experience than what I am posting.
I hope you all feel the strength I see in you.
Clearing up my perspective
In 1904, a woman gave birth to her first child. In 1906, her next child was born. Two girls. They would have had two brothers after them, but each time, the doctor came out of the birth room to ask the father whether he should save the mother or the child. Each time he opted to save the mother. (In order to do so, the doctor killed the baby and extracted it in pieces. If he had saved the baby, he would have performed a cesarean, assuming an outcome of maternal death due to the high mortality rate associated with it in those days.)
The first child was my grandmother. In 1939, she gave birth to her only child. She was told she should not have any more children should she wish to survive to raise my father.
Clearly, I understand the value of cesarean. Two dead babies and some never-conceived aunts and uncles would have been around if cesarean had been an option in those days. Today, many lives are saved by cesarean, sometimes mothers, sometimes babies. Many cesareans are performed just in case, when a question arises about the safety of continuing with the birthing process. Most of these babies would have been fine, but since we don't know which ones, it makes sense to do a cesarean when the risks of cesarean become better than the risks of continuing with the birthing process. Unfortunately, in our country, at least half of cesareans are done either before the risk ratio tilts in this direction, or after it does so due to previous unnecessary interventions. But let's pretend that every cesarean was life-saving, and heck, let's even pretend that cesarean carries no greater physical risk than vaginal birth.
I still would understand, support, and defend women who are upset by the experience. Why? Because humans are emotional beings that deserve to grieve when they need to, and to be supported in healing. And honestly, it is a reasonable thing to be disturbed by the experience of having the happiest day of your life also be a medical event. Many people are disturbed by medical experiences alone; I know many people who hate going to the dentist or having blood drawn. When something as emotional as having a baby involves invasive procedures, some people will be fine with that and some will be traumatized. When you add in the lack of respect that happens in some medicalized births for the incredible experience of your baby's entrance into the world, the number of traumatized women increases. It is possible to honor the miracle even in the context of surgery, and I wonder if the women who emerge from cesarean emotionally well were honored better. In fact, it's usually women feeling disregarded or disrespected that causes them the most trauma (whether birth is cesarean or vaginal).
The idea that the birth experience doesn't matter is the predominant idea in this country and it bothers me quite a lot. It is not the most important thing, this is true. The vast majority (99.99%?) of mothers would submit to any kind of birth experience for the sake of their baby. But we get into a slippery slope if we start to think that only outcome matters. If your house is broken into by a man who is going to kill you anyway, is it OK for him to rape you first? If you come home from a war, should you not be "allowed" to have PTSD from what you saw there, and just be grateful that you are alive? If you walk away from a car accident, is it ridiculous to have nightmares?
I believe that people should feel what they feel, and if you happen to think it would be better for them that they stop having those feelings, perhaps the best way to help them stop is to support them on a path through and out of their pain, rather than telling them it's inappropriate.
When resistance to the idea of birth trauma comes from women who have had similar experiences to those who do feel trauma, I wonder if they feel as though they are being judged. I certainly hope I do not do or say anything that feels like judgment to anyone. I find birthing women strong, capable, and brave regardless of how their babies get here, regardless of the choices they make around birth. I respect each and every one of you for who you are. I respect what you think and feel. I am blessed to know you. I enjoy seeing my friends feel strong. I dislike seeing strong, amazing women feel guilt, regret, disempowerment. I post information here not because I am judging anyone's experience but because I see two ways to help more women feel their strength - one by changing the birth culture to support more women finding their strength in birth rather than being knocked down, and two by listening to women talk through any negative feelings that have come up for them and being alongside them as they navigate the path to healing. All my posts about birth are meant to build up a healthy birth culture, not to knock down anyone who had a different experience than what I am posting.
I hope you all feel the strength I see in you.
Thursday, May 12, 2011
Shrug, crushed.
"What an expansive year, and yet, it all felt normal. It all just happened. It was simply the life I was living. Other people would remark on it, and I'd be speechless, feeling an internal shrug. It was what it was."
It's been less than five months since I posted this. That shrug? Gone.
A few births blew open subconscious preconceptions I held about the realm of possibility in this world. They proved to me again (and again) that I am able to remain steady and get the job done in tense moments, but for the first time I felt truly shaken after all was secured. For the first time, the ground felt uncertain under me for not only a day but weeks, and I questioned what I knew and what I wanted. Now, I know more. I remember and confirm what I want.
My kids have stretched me, too. I suppose I shouldn't put it that way, because it's more that I'm doing the hard work of examining what I expect from myself as their mother. Really, it comes down to that I'm working harder than I ever have before, , and I miss them. It was planned, and planned to be temporary, and it will resolve on its own. There are practical decisions to make, such as their schooling for next year (home or private? If home, which charter?) and where and when to move houses.
Being a midwife is mindblowing, heart and soul work. Being a parent is heart-wrenching, expansive work. Doing both is, perhaps, as everyone told me, crazy. I love both. But no more shrugs, I admit it, this is huge.
It's been less than five months since I posted this. That shrug? Gone.
A few births blew open subconscious preconceptions I held about the realm of possibility in this world. They proved to me again (and again) that I am able to remain steady and get the job done in tense moments, but for the first time I felt truly shaken after all was secured. For the first time, the ground felt uncertain under me for not only a day but weeks, and I questioned what I knew and what I wanted. Now, I know more. I remember and confirm what I want.
My kids have stretched me, too. I suppose I shouldn't put it that way, because it's more that I'm doing the hard work of examining what I expect from myself as their mother. Really, it comes down to that I'm working harder than I ever have before, , and I miss them. It was planned, and planned to be temporary, and it will resolve on its own. There are practical decisions to make, such as their schooling for next year (home or private? If home, which charter?) and where and when to move houses.
Being a midwife is mindblowing, heart and soul work. Being a parent is heart-wrenching, expansive work. Doing both is, perhaps, as everyone told me, crazy. I love both. But no more shrugs, I admit it, this is huge.
Monday, May 2, 2011
The Moldau
It's easy to describe events, real or imaginary, but emotion... emotion is a bigger challenge to put into words. Thank God for music, which describes what words can not. Lately I've been thinking of how to describe the interplay between some of the deepest emotions in my life and the most profound piece of music in my history. It's time to try.
History: I was raised by musicians in a house filled with music in the physical, auditory, and spiritual senses. History: I played violin from the age of five, with a love-hate relationship for the first six years and a passionate love affair for the next six. History: The Moldau was one of the last pieces of music I played.
Through the unraveling of my self as musician, The Moldau became inextricably linked to everything I know about myself as a vulnerable and triumphant human being.
It was our chairing audition piece in the youth symphony that year. I flailed through it so badly that I left the audition in tears, sure that I was going to not only lose my chair of 9th out of the 16 1st violins but that I was going to end up in the back of the 2nd violins. I got out of my car at home and took out my frustration on a 4 mile round trip walk to my best friend's house. (She wasn't home. Life before cell phones.) Calling to receive the news of my placement was nerve wracking, and when the woman on the line told me I was 8th chair I had to ask her "1sts or 2nds?" Firsts. Firsts! I'd actually gained a chair. And I thought I had learned a lesson in believing in myself and feeling my own strength.
No signs of trouble throughout the year. I was in pain, but I had been in pain for years. Taking 800 mg of ibuprofen every 4 waking hours was a routine part of my day, with breakthrough pain from my neck to my midback and all the way down both arms. I never questioned it. My childhood best friend was a ballerina who also lived with chronic pain. My arms, her ankles. We paid the price for our art.
Then in spring, I was preparing for a solo competition, two recitals, and the youth symphony's spring concert. The Moldau. I knew it was written about a river that runs through Prague, but I always felt it as my heart beating, my life's energy coursing through me. It's the closest understanding I have of the concept of chi. The Moldau.
By mid-May, I'd completed three of the four performances. Just before the fourth, my hands rebelled. Seized up completely. I don't remember the pain, only the inaction. My hands and wrists were frozen in claws. I would use the back of one hand to open the other and place it on an object I wanted to grasp, but that was as far as I could get. I did not have the strength to turn a doorknob or lift a glass of water to my lips.
I saw a physical medicine specialist, who told me I could expect permanent damage if I did not quit violin immediately. He preferred that I stop permanently, but said I could try playing again after six months of complete cessation and physical therapy, provided I made enough progress. I also had to immediately and permanently stop taking the ibuprofen, so that I would be completely aware of my pain and prevent myself from harming my body any further in my daily activities.
The physical and emotional pain over the next several months eclipsed the rest of my life. I have few memories from this time frame. I do remember that at one point it occurred to me that I was mourning the greatest loss of my life. Fifteen years later I would still agree with that viewpoint. While I would have given up violin to save the lives of any of the people I have lost (and I do note that I have not lost any children or either of my parents), the mourning that came with the end of what I had regarded as my very being was immense. After close to a year had passed, I attempted to practice the music to audition for UCLA's symphony. I forcefully relapsed. And I acknowledged that it was over.
Nothing could replace violin in my life. Slowly, though, I found other, smaller ways of fulfillment. I became physically active in a way I had never anticipated, loving hiking outdoors and indoor rock climbing. I graduated from college and married my high school sweetheart. I finally fully rested my hands, in ending school and finding a job with no computer work involved. After three specialists and three physical therapists, I found the cure for my repetitive strain injuries: massage therapy. Money, time, and an extraordinary body worker finally ended my chronic pain four years after I had quit violin. And somewhere in that four years I had become whole again, so subtly that I can't point to a moment of transformation into a complete self that wasn't a violinist.
I couldn't listen to any music at all that first summer. Even rock music - guitar is a stringed instrument, after all. After several months I could listen to rock. After a few years I reintroduced classical music. In fact, I played so much of The Four Seasons (one of those last recital pieces!) when I was pregnant with my first child that it was the only thing that could calm her on car rides in her infancy.
As I gave birth to my children and then found birth work, I recognized that birth was the first thing since violin that had fulfilled me as wholly, though differently, as violin had. And one day, as I drove to my first midwifery skills class, The Moldau came on the radio. For the first time in twelve years, I listened. I let it wash all over me, feeling acutely the loss of the violinist and the triumph of my soul.
Since that day, I turn to the Moldau when I need to find peace with my vulnerability or feel my ability to prevail. In becoming a midwife, these needs have been great! When I listen to The Moldau, my emotions are raw. Every muscle in my body sings with proprioceptive memory of playing violin. My heart joins in the song. I can smell the rosin and the wood, feel the vibrations of the symphony around me in my chest and in my feet on the wood planks of the stage. I can believe I'm there again. I remember what I've lost, and I remember what I achieved in gaining myself back, finding my impenetrable core. Then I recognize again what I am working for and who I am. I recognize that I can exist outside of a named identity but as deeply as I was a violinist, I will be a midwife; as deeply as music will always continue to stir my body and soul, I have always been a midwife.
History: I was raised by musicians in a house filled with music in the physical, auditory, and spiritual senses. History: I played violin from the age of five, with a love-hate relationship for the first six years and a passionate love affair for the next six. History: The Moldau was one of the last pieces of music I played.
Through the unraveling of my self as musician, The Moldau became inextricably linked to everything I know about myself as a vulnerable and triumphant human being.
It was our chairing audition piece in the youth symphony that year. I flailed through it so badly that I left the audition in tears, sure that I was going to not only lose my chair of 9th out of the 16 1st violins but that I was going to end up in the back of the 2nd violins. I got out of my car at home and took out my frustration on a 4 mile round trip walk to my best friend's house. (She wasn't home. Life before cell phones.) Calling to receive the news of my placement was nerve wracking, and when the woman on the line told me I was 8th chair I had to ask her "1sts or 2nds?" Firsts. Firsts! I'd actually gained a chair. And I thought I had learned a lesson in believing in myself and feeling my own strength.
No signs of trouble throughout the year. I was in pain, but I had been in pain for years. Taking 800 mg of ibuprofen every 4 waking hours was a routine part of my day, with breakthrough pain from my neck to my midback and all the way down both arms. I never questioned it. My childhood best friend was a ballerina who also lived with chronic pain. My arms, her ankles. We paid the price for our art.
Then in spring, I was preparing for a solo competition, two recitals, and the youth symphony's spring concert. The Moldau. I knew it was written about a river that runs through Prague, but I always felt it as my heart beating, my life's energy coursing through me. It's the closest understanding I have of the concept of chi. The Moldau.
By mid-May, I'd completed three of the four performances. Just before the fourth, my hands rebelled. Seized up completely. I don't remember the pain, only the inaction. My hands and wrists were frozen in claws. I would use the back of one hand to open the other and place it on an object I wanted to grasp, but that was as far as I could get. I did not have the strength to turn a doorknob or lift a glass of water to my lips.
I saw a physical medicine specialist, who told me I could expect permanent damage if I did not quit violin immediately. He preferred that I stop permanently, but said I could try playing again after six months of complete cessation and physical therapy, provided I made enough progress. I also had to immediately and permanently stop taking the ibuprofen, so that I would be completely aware of my pain and prevent myself from harming my body any further in my daily activities.
The physical and emotional pain over the next several months eclipsed the rest of my life. I have few memories from this time frame. I do remember that at one point it occurred to me that I was mourning the greatest loss of my life. Fifteen years later I would still agree with that viewpoint. While I would have given up violin to save the lives of any of the people I have lost (and I do note that I have not lost any children or either of my parents), the mourning that came with the end of what I had regarded as my very being was immense. After close to a year had passed, I attempted to practice the music to audition for UCLA's symphony. I forcefully relapsed. And I acknowledged that it was over.
Nothing could replace violin in my life. Slowly, though, I found other, smaller ways of fulfillment. I became physically active in a way I had never anticipated, loving hiking outdoors and indoor rock climbing. I graduated from college and married my high school sweetheart. I finally fully rested my hands, in ending school and finding a job with no computer work involved. After three specialists and three physical therapists, I found the cure for my repetitive strain injuries: massage therapy. Money, time, and an extraordinary body worker finally ended my chronic pain four years after I had quit violin. And somewhere in that four years I had become whole again, so subtly that I can't point to a moment of transformation into a complete self that wasn't a violinist.
I couldn't listen to any music at all that first summer. Even rock music - guitar is a stringed instrument, after all. After several months I could listen to rock. After a few years I reintroduced classical music. In fact, I played so much of The Four Seasons (one of those last recital pieces!) when I was pregnant with my first child that it was the only thing that could calm her on car rides in her infancy.
As I gave birth to my children and then found birth work, I recognized that birth was the first thing since violin that had fulfilled me as wholly, though differently, as violin had. And one day, as I drove to my first midwifery skills class, The Moldau came on the radio. For the first time in twelve years, I listened. I let it wash all over me, feeling acutely the loss of the violinist and the triumph of my soul.
Since that day, I turn to the Moldau when I need to find peace with my vulnerability or feel my ability to prevail. In becoming a midwife, these needs have been great! When I listen to The Moldau, my emotions are raw. Every muscle in my body sings with proprioceptive memory of playing violin. My heart joins in the song. I can smell the rosin and the wood, feel the vibrations of the symphony around me in my chest and in my feet on the wood planks of the stage. I can believe I'm there again. I remember what I've lost, and I remember what I achieved in gaining myself back, finding my impenetrable core. Then I recognize again what I am working for and who I am. I recognize that I can exist outside of a named identity but as deeply as I was a violinist, I will be a midwife; as deeply as music will always continue to stir my body and soul, I have always been a midwife.
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