Friday, March 14, 2008
The human body amazes me. As I watch my son’s and daughter’s bodies grow, I am continually astonished by the complex involuntary processes at work. Teeth form and push through skin at just the right moment. Fat converts to muscle that lengthens and strengthens as it is needed. Digestive tissue milks the perfect balance of nutrients from food to meet metabolic demand.
The body is smart too. It knows more than the mind does about what a human needs to thrive, causing pregnant women to crave oranges (the white inner skin is a cure for naseau) and sick children to eschew dairy products (which cause mucus production.) The body carries all the experiences and all the memories that the mind has no room for. Like a gentle grandmother, the body gathers up forgotten or abandoned bits of self, knowing that you might want or need them later.
During my last year of grad school, both my grandparents died. My grandfather’s passing was an expected culmination to a prolonged tango with diabetes that we were all prepared for. But my grandmother died more suddenly and more mysteriously six months later of “heart failure.” Her daughter has always said she died of a broken heart.
My heart broke too when she died. She was younger than my grandfather by 7 or 8 years, and I thought that fact, coupled with my searing love for her, would ensure that she would live long enough to see my children be born. I stumbled through the end of grad school, moved back to
But later that year, I had a massage. I was up at Harbin Hot Springs – an historic and hedonistic “clothing optional” retreat center in Northern California – with my good friend Artemis - the only person I could imagine enjoying being naked in public with! And this may actually have been the first massage I had ever had. The therapist started at my feet and made a slow and pleasant journey upward, paying extra attention to all my various trouble spots (“I’ve got really tight hamstrings….oh, my lower back is pretty tweaky…and I’ve got some scar tissue in my right shoulder…” etc.)
When she got to the back of my neck, she made a soft exhalation – a little sound of surprise. She said, “You’ve got quite a treasure trove here.” I loved that. The image that my knots and achy places were actually storehouses for important stuff my body was hanging on to. As she gently worked this spot, I started to cry. Then I started to sob. I cried and cried and cried. And the therapist never missed a beat. She just kept rubbing and kneading and breathing with me. “Oh,” I thought with sudden clarity, “that’s where I’m keeping my grandparents.”
The body knows. It knows when to hold ‘em, and it knows when to fold ‘em. For weeks, my body has been trying to get my attention with one complaint after another. My feet hurt when I get out of bed in the morning. My hips have been achy enough that I’m sleeping with a pillow between my knees, just like I did during pregnancy. All of my treasure spots have been sending out regular neural distress signals, like little homing beacons, whispering “here…here…look here…” So I finally got it together to visit a chiropractor this week. And just my luck, I picked the best one who ever practiced during the last 100 years. A gorgeous soft-spoken German woman with hands like fluttering doves. She spent an hour and a half with me during the first visit on Wednesday and 40 minutes with me today. She is not in a hurry. And she is not daunted by the vast amount of work that lies ahead to bring my body back into a state of alignment, harmony, and health.
In particular, she focused on gentle manipulations to my abdomen and my pelvis, which is surprisingly twisted and torqued, even considering what it’s been through lately. She’s also been working on relaxing the backs of my legs, which seem to still believe they have to work hard enough to keep me and the burden of my baby upright. In essence, my body is still behaving as though I’m pregnant. And I don’t think this is just standard post-partum repair work we’re doing here. I think that as chipper as I have been about the less-than-ideal experience of birthing Miss V, there are aspects of the trauma that have lodged themselves in my body, because there is something I need to know or learn about myself before I let them go.
So, I’m going to let the body take the lead for once (although I’m sure my brain will try to be a back-seat driver.) I’m going to keep visiting my chiropractor, do yoga, drink water, and lie around and look at the sky as much as I can. I think my life might depend on it. Not in the “I’m going to die young if I don’t do this” sense, but more in the “I’m going to wake up one day crushed under the weight of my own sadness” sense. Left to its own devices, grief tends to multiply, like mold in damp corners. What is a grain of grief right now may turn into a waving field of grief if ignored.
Grief. A word we seldom use, unless we have to. But like mold spores, it surrounds us and permeates us daily. Personal grief. Collective grief. Temporal and historical grief. And we make so little space for it, until we have to.
And you? What treasure stores does your body carry? What would happen if you took out those rusty keys and unlocked them one by one, took out the contents, and let it sift through your hands like fine pearls?
Be well.
photo by estherase
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
When I was younger, whenever I felt a little crazy, I would hop in my car and drive to the beach. I favored hard-to-get-to spots such as one of the Marin Headlands beaches that can only be reached via a crumbly hillside trail that is clearly marked "Closed" (a warning that never seems to deter local residents - there were always loads of people on this particular beach). Upon arrival, I would lie directly on the sand - no mitigating towel or blanket - digging myself ever so slightly down into the earth - and let the heat of the sand and the sound of the waves slowly pulse the craziness out of me. I did this a lot in my 20's. The sound of all that water rushing up to meet the land and dashing away again is the most comforting sound I know - it mirrors the pitch and pace of our own breaths and heartbeats - it is the sound of life itself. It is a sound I could trust, even when I didn't trust myself.
And now in my 30's, it seems that I have become the ocean, and my children are the ones lying half-buried in the sand, calmed and caressed by the tidal sounds emanating from my body. When my son is feverish or wakened by nightmares, I lie on the floor next to his bed with a hand on his body making slow, rhythmic, tones with my voice - not music, just sound, in waves - and it calms him until he can finally let himself relax into sleep again. When Miss V cries, my husband and I pick her up and make load whoosing sounds into her ear (recommended by the Baby Whisperer I think!), and she immediately quiets, lulled by the same sort of consistent noise she experienced in the womb as my blood rushed to and fro.
In pregnancy, one's body becomes an entire tidal ecosystem, as is evidenced by the rising fluid levels in all parts of the body. One of the many strange features of the post-partum period is how much you have to pee, as all this extra fluid, no longer needed to buoy and sustain the baby, is released. I wonder if the fact that we all begin life as aquatic creatures explains our deep fascination with the sea, as though we understand that this breathing of air is a new and temporary thing, not our original source of sustenance.
...to be continued...
Sunday, September 09, 2007
MIRACLE x 2One of my favorite intellectual indulgences is engaging in long-winded theological conversations. My good friend J and I use to stay up till all hours in college debating the nature of divinity and the various laws and practices humans have devised to explain and express their connection to it. For my own part, I believe in a kind of universal consciousness and creative force that I call G-d, for want of a better word to describe the expressible. But I've never believed this power was personal: I don't think G-d takes notice of me or the specific circumstances of my life. I think that I hold about the same position in G-d's consciousness as any other living thing: one drop in a really big bucket.
And yet...how to explain the miracle of my daughter's heart. Yes, Baby Pickle has revealed herself to us. We recently had the 2nd ultrasound - the big picture show - and because we had the good fortune of getting a technician-in-training, the test took about an hour (rather than 10 minutes), and we got to see everything. First, as I predicted, Baby Pickle is most likely a girl. I am enormously pleased by this discovery, not only because I felt she was a girl and love having my maternal intuition validated, but because I am really looking forward to having the experience of parenting children of both genders. I am also hoping that Pickle and Gman will find it easier to enjoy and tolerate each other if they are a bit different.
But by far the most amazing part of the ultrasound was the chance to see Pickle's heart. There are several measurements of the heart ultrasound technicians must take to ensure that there are no significant defects, and because ours was a novice, he was having trouble getting his shots. His teacher, a nurse who appeared to be running the whole department, patiently instructed him how to move the ultrasound wand until finally, the entire pulsing organ came into view. It was such an amazingly clear picture, everyone wanted to linger over it. We could see all four ventricles, the arteries leading into and away from the heart, and the pulsating flush of light representing the flow of blood through the heart. "Nice heart," the nurse said after a minute. And I felt a flood of pride: "I made that heart!" And then another flood of wonder: "How is this possible?" How is it possible that one human being can create another inside of them? How is it possible that information encoded on a microscopic scroll could cause the creation of such a complicated, delicate, and beautiful organ. Looking at my daughter's heart, I immediately understood why the organ has become the symbolic seat of the emotions and even the soul in human consciousness. It is the very embodiment of the universal life force that moves through all things with a steady thumping beat. You can live without a brain. You can live without your kidneys. You cannot live without your heart. And looking at this heart, I could suddenly imagine that maybe G-d does take notice of each creature created on her blue globe. I imagined the heart as G-d's pied-a-terre, the place she fills when she comes to visit her creatures in their earthly incarnation.
Now on to the 2nd Miracle. The day after this ultrasound appointment, I got a phone call out of the blue. "Hello, my name is Jeanette. I'm a one-to-one midwife. Can I stop by and see you today?" I've got to give you some backstory so you can fully appreciate the waves of ecstasy that rolled through me when I heard those words. Early in my pregnancy, I became convinced that I wanted to try for a homebirth this time around. I've had several people encouraging me toward this choice - my exceptional midwife L who graciously "specialed" me with my first pregnancy (meaning that she was the only person I saw for my prenatal care and she committed to being at my delivery), my amazing doula R (who I credit with getting me through transition quickly and in a relaxed enough state that I was able to go the distance without the drugs), and my new friend A (who is training to be an antenatal teacher here in the UK). A gave me a fabulous book called "Homebirth" by UK author and midwife Nicky Wesson, and after reading it, I was pretty sure I wanted to try it. However, the book cautioned that while 75 years ago 90% of births were done at home, today the rate is less than 2%! Thus, you can expect to find a lot of ignorance and resistance to homebirth in the mainstream medical establishment.
Flash forward to my first prenatal appointment at around 14 weeks. I saw a woman who it turns out was a midwife (although she never introduced herself to me, nor did she do much beyond taking my blood pressure and asking 3 or 4 banal questions), and I told her that I wanted to have a homebirth. She basically said "Oh, you can't. We don't do that anymore, we don't have the staffing. We used to have this thing called the one-to-one midwife scheme, but it's only available to disadvantaged mothers now." In other words, if I was young, addicted or crazy I could have the blissful experience of seeing the same midwife throughout my pregnancy, and in my own home no less, but since I'm healthy, wealthy and middle-aged, no dice. Now to be fair, the National Health System is extremely strapped at the moment. Later I learned that it was decided at some point to save one-to-one midwifery time for people who otherwise might not receive any prenatal care. This seems like a smart idea. But still, I was flummoxed by the "we don't do that" approach to homebirth. Because not only are the outcomes better in homebirth, it's actually a hell of a lot cheaper for the state than a hospital birth. I mentioned several times during my visit that I would really like to have a homebirth. "I'll put in a request" she said in a bored tone, "but I wouldn't count on it." I figured that was a euphemism for "fuck off," and didn't expect it to go any further.
At my next appointment, at around 16 weeks, I saw the head honcho OB doctor, because I have this little genetic disposition toward developing blood clots, and I needed to check out the implications for the pregnancy. Turns out there are none for the baby (yeah!), although I could potentially croak from a post-partum deep vein thrombosis that develops into a pulmonary embolism (boo!), but the chances of that are very unlikely and it wouldn't develop quickly so there would be time to take some measures to contain it. I asked this Dr. M (a white, middle-aged, ultra-English male) if my condition precluded me having a homebirth. He said no, "but I would advise against a homebirth anyway." Why? Because my first baby was "big" at 9 pounds, 9 ounces, and 2nd babies tend to get even bigger. "We'd worry about shoulder dystocia," (fancy term for baby getting stuck on the way out). Oh, is that all. I laughed it off, because honestly, if you've seen my hips, you know I ain't gonna have no trouble birthin' no big babies.
Turns out, this conservative dude is actually the gatekeeper of my prenatal care. Because at my 3rd appointment (the one where I had the ultrasound), a much friendlier and more informative midwife said "Oh yes, we do do homebirths and we're always looking for candidates," (yeah!) "but Dr. M has said you shouldn't have one, so you'll have to convince him," (boo!) When I asked when and how I could achieve this, she told me I could see him again at 36 weeks. "Isn't that leaving things a bit late," I asked. "Oh no," she chirped, "if he says it's okay then, we can still schedule you for a homebirth." At this point I was 22 weeks (out of 40 total), and I didn't relish the thought of spending 14 weeks worrying about a big showdown with the doctor that would either result in me getting the chance to birth the way I want or in getting forced into doing it their way. Didn't seem like a good plan. But I left the hospital with the grateful knowledge that Baby Pickle is healthy so far and decided that I would hold the intention of a "homebirth" and hope that the universe or G-d was tuning in enough to pick up my broadcast.
The very next day, I got the call from Jeanette, the one-to-one midwife. I waited all day for her to turn up (she was squeezing me in), and when she finally arrived, we spent a relaxed hour together chatting over tea. She took my blood pressure again and measured my belly on the couch, while Gman played happily in his room. She explained that in fact, one-to-one midwifery care is still available for anyone who wants to have a homebirth. And it turns out the first midwife I saw - the surly one who I thought was blowing me off, actually did put in my request, and finally it had been approved, and I was in like Flynn.
I cannot describe the joy I felt that day, and the wonder that after expecting the worst, suddenly the best had become possible. It just goes to show...well, I don't really know what it shows. Except that I am considering it a Miracle - Miracle #2 (the first being Pickle's heart) - and I am so so grateful. "Hold the intention" is becoming a new mantra - a kissing cousin with "Do your part and the universe will do the rest." There are still lots of reasons why I could wind up delivering in the hospital, but I feel like I have done everything I could to create the optimal conditions for this baby to land in the world, and that is a very very good feeling.
May you experience a Miracle in your own life sometime soon. And may you be wise enough to recognize it when it comes.
Be well.
Labels: birth, Faith, Mamahood
Saturday, July 07, 2007
Time to let the cat out of the bag. Well, okay, I'm actually hoping to keep the cat...er...baby in the bag awhile yet. But I've had visual confirmation via a scan that this baby exists and at 15 weeks I'm out of the danger zone, so I finally feel free to write about the experience of double-dipping into the Mamahood jar.
First of all, let me just say - those condoms really do work. I know this because apparently I got pregnant about 12 seconds after we decided to stop using condoms even though we weren't quite ready to conceive yet ('cause hey, it took 8 months the first time, so we figured we had a little leeway.) But being pregnant seems to be like riding a bicycle - once your body has done it, there is no prep time required to do it again.
Like much else in life, the second time around isn't quite the thrill ride that the first was. It's also not as scary. While I did still entertain a persistent first trimester dread that the zygote wouldn't stick around to develop into a charmingly little long-tailed lizard, in most other regards it was fine and totally manageable. Sure, I was exhausted and a little queasy and emotionally volatile and exceptionally stupid for about 3 months, but other than that the first phase was no big deal. Also, since I am now living in the land of socialized medicine, I didn't even see a doctor for the first time until last week - so in a sense my pregnancy has been off the radar up until now.
But now I am on the radar, and now begins the struggle and scrape to choose when and how I will perform the big push. I've been fairly interested in having a homebirth, given that a) I had a great birth the first time around and b) I've heard lots of unpleasant stories from local mums about their experiences in NHS hospitals. But apparently if I go this route, the state has no obligation to provide me with a midwife to assist me. They might send somebody if they feel like it on the big day, but then again they might be too busy. This apparent indifference to my birthing preference appears to be largely economically motivated. In the hospital, one midwife can attend up to 5 women at a given time. At home, two midwives are required to be present and they must stay with the woman for the entire duration of her labor. So, obviously, you can pump out a lot more bambinos a lot quicker in a hospital setting. Which is my big problem with hospitals in the first place - the time pressure. Clock watching tends to lead to icky interventions like forcepts and vacuum extraction and caesareans. Apparently 100 years ago, 90% of women gave birth at home in this country. Now it is less than 2%. Amazing how times change. If I was poor, teenaged, or crazy, I would have a better shot at being assigned a homebirth midwife team. But since I am healthy and middle-class, my desires about how my health is managed are of little interest to NHS. I could hire an independent midwife to assist me with the birthing process - apparently they are terrific and even better trained than the NHS midwives - but it would cost us about $6,000 out of pocket. This option is a) financially impossible for us and b) kind of absurd in a country where allegedly the healthcare is free.
So, I'm trying to be patient - a good practice given that I am still less than halfway through my pregnancy. Being pregnant provides the ultimate opportunity to get comfortable with waiting - which is I think one of the secrets to being a happy and fulfilled person. We are so used to being in control, to exerting our agency and influence - it is quite a shock to discover that in some circumstances the best and only thing that can be done is to wait. And I still remember a key lesson I learned in my first pregnancy - the reason it takes 10 months to grow a baby is that it takes the baby's parents that long to really believe in the baby - as a fully fleshed individual entity, not just an idea or a lifestyle prop. It is starting to dawn on me in small ways that another human being is coming to live in our house and that everything we have chosen or planned for our lives is about to change. We don't know if this person will be male or female. We don't know if s/he will be mellow or intense. We don't know if s/he will be sick or healthy. And all those unknowns stir up flocks of other unknowns - where will we be living in 6 months (our lease is technically up December 6th), when will I work again, what will life be like in 5 years (with a 4 year old and a 7 year old), in 10 years (with a 9 year old and a 12 year old), in 20?
Accepting the impermanence of life - that is one of the central goals of Buddhism. Well, I think having babies is one of the most tangible expressions of Buddhism there is - it's all about the unknown and lifes' cycle of constant change. It's all about giving up your ego and acknowledging that you have no control over anything. It's all about the present moment - which today - at this moment - is very good: the sun is shining (after 14 straight days of rain), I went for a power-walk this morning (I finally feel well enough to exercise), and I've had enough time alone to both read and write this blog. I hope the moment is good for you too.
Be well.
Labels: birth, Faith, Mamahood
