Tuesday, December 23, 2014

pre-c-section

Most women push babies out of their who who's. It's the way that God has designed us females. And it's really cool, albeit painful and gross. It wasn't until I was probably about 40 weeks pregnant with Blake that I watched some documentaries about natural childbirth, and I realized that there were options like a birth care center. Not impossible, but still, a little late in the game to change my hospital birth plan. A certain set of circumstances with Blake's birth, induction and epidural, led to an ultimate c-section. I was so devastated and traumatized. I was in labor for 30 hours, and I pushed for 3 hours. What can I say, the kid is stubborn! Since then I have come to terms with having a c-section for Blake. I have learned that it does not make me less of a mother because I didn't push him out of my who who. And he's a beautiful, healthy boy, so I have so much to be grateful for!

But I wanted this time to be different. I knew even before I was pregnant again that I wanted a VBAC. At my first doctor's appointment, I began discussing this with the doctors. They didn't even care to talk about it so soon, but they seemed supportive enough. So my "birth plan" this time around was to schedule my c-section at 41 weeks (which was the longest they would allow me to wait), and I just had to hope and pray that I went naturally before then to pursue my VBAC. No problem. My insurance deductible would restart Feb 1st, and I was to deliver Jan 9th at the latest.

Then in November, it all changed. I got a letter from my insurance stating that my plan was ending, effective Dec 31st, and I needed to apply for an "affordable" care act plan. WHAT?! Well, as some of you may have already experienced, those be some HIGH deductible plans! I don't have that kind of money. This was terrible news for me, but thankfully, I had a choice to schedule my c-section at 39 weeks, which is the traditional time that someone would schedule a repeat c-section. It was devastating, but it was a no brainer. Money talks, right? So December 26th c-section, it was.

The chances of going into labor before 39 weeks is slim, for someone who previously delivered, by force, at 41.5 weeks. But I certainly tried my best. As soon as I hit 37 weeks, I started trying natural induction methods. Nothing worked. Here I am, 3 days pre-c-section, and I am STILL pregnant and huge! I can't even wear my maternity shirts anymore; they have just become belly tops.

Anyway, as the days wore on, I started becoming more and more desperate to go into labor. I was ready to go outside and jog until my water broke. It became clear that this VBAC was insanely important to me. Was I tired of being pregnant? Did I really want Malcolm in my arms on Christmas morning? Yes, absolutely. But moreover than that, I just really want the experience of going into labor and pushing a baby out of my who who. Those of you who have done it might say, "Jess, believe me, it is painful! You aren't missing anything!" And those of you who have had c-sections may say, "Jess, the planned c-section is much less traumatic than the emergency c-section." And anyone might say, "Jess, it doesn't matter how your baby gets here, so long as you are holding your baby in the end!" I know all of these things. But this is my last baby. My last chance for feeling contractions. Screaming expletives. Knowing what it means to be ready to push. Pushing him out of my who who and having the experience of immediately holding him.

I didn't hold Blake for maybe eight hours or so after delivery. After many hours of epidural and anesthesia, I was a mess after my surgery. My whole body was shaking. Poor TJ was terrified. This c-section will be much less traumatic, I know. But that doesn't mean I'm happy about it coming down to this. I suppose some women are not meant to push babies out of their who whos. And I suppose, at this point, I have to accept that I am one of those women. Doesn't make me less of a mother, but it does mean that I will miss out on this very special experience. I am pretty heartbroken about it. Could still happen between now and the 26th, of course. But at this point, I am accepting the fact that it probably won't. And I will get over it, as soon as I am able to hold sweet Malcolm in my arms, and definitely by the time I start to heal from surgery and can get out of bed unassisted. But for now, I am sad, wondering why I can't manage to push a baby out of my who who like so many others can.

Tuesday, December 2, 2014

advent

The day after my dad died, I was taking the trash out, and there was a beautiful sunset. I'm not usually one to marvel at sunsets because I think they are generally overrated. But this sunset had the most beautiful pinks and purples, and it just seemed so big. I felt like God was showing me how big He is--that He is much bigger than my circumstances. For a moment, I felt comforted and, I don't know, like I had gotten a bit of perspective. I pictured the big tapestry of everyone in the world's lives. But then I said (out loud, I think), "But God, you took my dad away from me." And He said to me, "I am your dad." Again, I felt comfort for a moment. But I didn't want to talk about it anymore. So I ended the conversation and went inside.

About a week later, I was going to a doctor's visit, and it was that time of evening when, if you are driving westward, the sun is RIGHT in your eyes. I was blinded the whole way to the doctor's. But on the way home, I was being mooned. I had a perfect view of the moon the whole drive home. It was beautiful and clear and huge. And if it wasn't a full moon, it was pretty darn close. Blake loves the moon, so I have a new-found fondness for it. The moon makes me smile in ways it never did before. I cried the whole way home that evening because I felt like God was trying to be with me. He was like a boyfriend, trying to cheer me up with a beautiful bouquet of my favorite flowers. He was throwing rocks at my windows and holding a boombox on His shoulders, trying to get my attention. I accepted the bouquet and the serenade, but I told Him, "This doesn't change things between us. I'm not okay, and this still isn't fair."

All I could think for weeks, over and over, like a broken record, "It's not fair." I get it: God is the one who gives and takes away. God works for the good of those who love Him. But it wasn't fair. My dad was fine, right? He wasn't sick. He just had a bad cold, a few nosebleeds. I didn't understand why my dad could be suddenly gone after just a few nosebleeds.

In this season of advent, I am anticipating spending my first Christmas without my dad. We set up my dad's Christmas tree in my dad's house. We will wake up Christmas morning and not have to wait for my dad to wake before opening presents. I was really looking forward to decorating for Christmas because I was thinking it would make me more cheerful, but it's not helping too much. It's no beautiful sunset or clear moon for me.

But here we are, entering the time of year that we celebrate and thank God for coming to earth to be with us. I cannot celebrate the holy holiday of Christmas without fully believing that God my father came to earth to be with me. He is with me. And actually there's nothing fair about that, considering none of us deserve God's outpouring of love to us. This advent season, I can either numbly go through the traditions of decorating a Christmas tree, buying presents, and busying myself getting prepared for baby Malcolm's arrival. Or I can stop and rest in the truth that God is with me.

When my dad was intubated in the hospital, and they were trying to wake him from sedation, my dad was coughing a lot. He was moving around, but he wasn't very "with it" mentally. It scared the hell out of me because he's supposed to be the strong one, right? I sat by his side and held his hand, telling him that it was going to be alright. I picked up his legs when he would kick them off the side of the bed. I readjusted his blanket when it moved, and I put an extra blanket on him because he seemed to be cold. I talked to him about Blake and Malcolm. I told him how scared I was. It is so painful to see those images in my mind. And yet, after some time has passed, I have come to view these moments as holy moments. It was a gift to be there with my dad so that he wasn't alone.

Beautiful sunsets and clear moons can be holy. But not everything that's holy is peaceful. In the pain and tumult of my dad's final days, there was much holiness for me to experience. What makes a moment holy? When God is there. And God was surely there with me in my dad's final days. So though my dad is gone, and I miss him terribly, there is no other option than to celebrate God's presence this advent season (and always) because God our heavenly father is here.