The Business of Samara Being Born

I have returned to this post several times over the last nearly two years, starting and stopping, starting and stopping, as I write the story of how Samara came into the world.  Often, I've been so filled with emotion that continuing to write has been fraught with difficulty, preventing me from finishing.  The last time I tried to write the words of her birth story were several months ago, before a full-time job and a 5-year old in kindergarten took me away from being able to blog on a regular basis.  This time away has been good, though, as I have had some time to grieve and heal.  Although I still yearn for the "peaceful" births that so many friends have experienced, meeting their babies in birthing tubs, catching babies themselves as they pushed them out, I have come to some sort of peace with the way my children entered the world.  I know so many women who have not been able to conceive a child of their own, or who have lost babies in utero.  Women who had complications during pregnancy or emergencies during delivery.  Women who suffered post-partum depression.  Women who were unable to breastfeed.  Women who could not bond with their babies.  I have not experienced any of that.  I had a c-section.  While not ideal, and not what I wanted, it's my reality and I have learned to live with it.  As a wise woman told me, "treat yourself gently."  I am learning to do just that.  And so, below, is my account of how my precious Samara was born.
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I don't really know where to begin, which, I guess explains why it's taken me so long to write this post. Part of me feels the need to reach back to 2009 when Bryony was born, because so much of Samara's birth echoed that event.  Another part of me just wants to erase it all from memory so I can stop feeling sad, resentful and disappointed.  But Samara, like Bryony, deserves to have her story told, so here I go...

On Tuesday, 14 January 2014, I woke up to my phone ringing.  I didn't recognize the number, so ordinarily wouldn't have answered it, but for some reason I did.  It was Adam's colleague, Shelly, calling to tell me that the office was throwing a little party for us in anticipation of the baby.  She wondered what time that day I'd be able to come in.  I was taken a little aback that someone would inform me of a party the same day it was to take place, assuming that I had not made any other plans.  I told her that unfortunately, I had a scheduled prenatal appointment that day, and would not be able to make it to the office for a party.  She sounded surprised (I suppose folks can't conceive that pregnant, full-time parents have lives, plans and schedules just like the rest of the world!) and disappointed, but we made plans for Bryony and my pregnant self to come in the following day.  My prenatal appointment with the midwives went well.  They found that everything was progressing normally and well, and started to talk about "post date plans", or what we might consider doing if I went too far past my due date.

The next day, Wednesday, Bryony and I walked (very slowly) the 15-minute trip to Adam's office.  It felt like it took forever, even though I was trying to walk fast since his office mates were waiting on us.  We finally got there, and there were snacks and cards and gifts.  They even had an office pool, betting on when the baby would arrive. I was only a tad bit annoyed that people were hoping to make money off of my efforts, but I tried to chalk it up to culture and tradition and got on with things.

Bryony and I walked back home an hour later with a few of the gifts (Adam would carry the larger, heavier items later), and I settled down for the afternoon.  By dinnertime, I was experiencing contractions, not painful but frequent at 3-4 minutes.  At first I assumed they were Braxton-Hicks, because they weren't keeping me from doing anything, just noticeable in their intensity and frequency.  I drank a couple glasses of water to no avail.  The contractions kept coming.  I texted my sister that I might be going into labor within the next 6-12 hours.  She immediately called to ask if it was time for her to come get Bryony, as she would be taking care of my big firstborn while I was laboring.  The idea of having Bryony away from me at that point was too emotionally overwhelming, so I asked my sister to let me wait awhile.  I promised to call back if the contractions turned into true labor. I went to sleep Wednesday night still experiencing tightening around my belly, but was able to sleep rather fitfully.

Thursday came with the contractions seemingly gone.  Within just an hour or so of getting up, however, the tightening and untightening began once more.  And lasted, lasted, lasted throughout the day. I didn't want to call my sister again, so I called my mother instead.  She was worried (as mothers are) and asked if it was time for me to go to the birth center.  The contractions were still 10-15 minutes apart at that point, so I knew it was too soon.  I promised to call during the night or early morning if I needed to.  They promised to come get Bryony from the house in the middle of the night if necessary.  I slept downstairs in the guest bedroom that night, as my discomfort was enough that I didn't want to be around anyone, much less keep Adam awake with my grunts and moans.

Friday morning was different.  I had dealt with contractions all night, timing them to see if they were getting more regular.  By the time I got out of bed and went to the bathroom, I saw that large gooey material was coming out on the tissue.  Mucous plug! (also known as bloody show).  This is one of the first definitive signs of labor coming on, and I was excited.  I told Adam before he left for work that today would likely be the day we'd start the process of meeting our baby.  He was excited, but also nervous, because he had a big case at work that morning, and was hoping to have it done before he had to think about leaving to drive to the birth center. He said he'd ask if he could get his case pushed to the front of the docket that morning.  I wondered how anyone would say no, considering his excuse. Meanwhile, I started watching the clock and timing my contractions.  Before I realized it, I was having them every 5-7 minutes.  I figured it was probably time to call my midwife.  It was so strange to go through that process, after having called so many times in the past regarding appointments, test results and to ask questions.  This call was THE CALL.  The call that all the other calls had been leading up to.  I felt nervous (because what if I was wrong and not really in labor?) and giddy (of course I'm in labor!) and worried and excited.  My midwife Peggy picked up the line, and after hearing my details, said that it sounded like I was closing in on active labor.  She suggested I monitor my contractions over the next couple hours, and if they got closer together, to give her a call back.  At that point, I called my sister to let her know that it was game time.  I had already packed Bryony's suitcase with a few days' worth of clothes, a spare toothbrush, comb and some snuggle buddies.  Logistically, she was all set.  Emotionally, neither one of us was ready to separate.  I went upstairs to take a shower, and we just snuggled in bed together for a good hour, with her rubbing my belly through contractions and telling me how much she loved me.  It was such a wonderful, special time because those were our last moments together as mother and daughter before we would share our world with another child.  I cherished and treasured those moments and am grateful that I made time for them in all the haste of getting things together.  She clung to me the rest of the morning as my contractions got more intense, even seeming to know when to pause in her questions and wait for the moment to pass before speaking again.  Boy, I sure do love that little wise, intuitive girl.

By 10:30 am my sister had arrived to pick Bryony up.  It was strange on many levels.  Since I had lived in a different state when I was pregnant with Bryony, family wasn't able to be around when I went into labor with her.  It was strange to see my sister as I was in the midst of strong contractions, my speech punctuated and delayed.  Seeing Bryony get into her car, excited to be with her aunt but sad to be leaving me, tugged at my heart.  I wished she could be there at the birth, but because I knew that it could take a long time, I didn't want her to become antsy or bored.  Being with her aunt and uncle and having fun was the best thing for her.

I called Peggy back around 11:00 am, because my contractions had increased to every 3-4 minutes, and stayed there.  Peggy said it was definitely time for me to come in, and could I be there within 1-2 hours?  I didn't know what Adam's work situation was, so I told her I thought I could be there by 1:00 pm.  I immediately called Adam, whose case was over (his colleagues had indeed bumped him to the front of the docket with his wife being in labor!), and was writing a legal addendum.  He promised to be home within the half hour or so.  My bag was packed, so all I had to do at that point was text the dog-sitter to ask her to come by the house that evening and the following morning to take care of the pets.  I got confirmation from her, and I was pretty much set.  Time...to...wait. And wait some more.  Nearly an hour later, I called Adam to ask where he was.  He was just finishing up his document and was going to run home.  I didn't think I could deal with the wait, so I offered to drive to his office to pick him up.  So, with contractions getting increasingly more painful and intense, I took the dogs to the basement, got my bags together and walked out the front door.  I noticed out of the corner of my eye, my neighbor's husband in their front yard.  He looked up at me when he heard me come out of the house.  At that moment a halting contraction stopped me in my steps, and I leaned against the house to wait it out.  I wondered if he knew what was going on, but I couldn't take the time to see.  I rushed (as much as I could rush) down the stairs to the car, packed the bags, turned on the car, had a contraction, then started the less-than-one-mile drive to Adam's office. I kept hoping I didn't have the baby in the car.  As sweet as those stories can sometimes sound on the 11 o'clock news, there was nothing appealing about that idea to me.  I sat in the car outside Adam's building and waited for him to come out.  It took a bit.  I was contraction! annoyed that he'd keep me waiting while I was in labor.  He came running out, and I remembered I had brought a thank you card for his colleagues in gratitude for the nice party they'd thrown us two days before.  I asked him to run it back upstairs, as I was afraid once baby had arrived, we would be too busy to remember.  He looked at me uncertainly, but I insisted, so he turned and ran back into the building to deliver the card.  He came back out a few minutes later, and as I shifted over to the passenger seat so he could drive, he mentioned something about his coworkers wishing us well.  I told him Bryony was safely at my sister's house, and we were on our way.

The ride to the birth center was long, bumpy and painful.  Even though this early labor was comparatively easy to what was yet to come, it was hard to be confined to the car for 50 minutes, stopping at traffic lights, bumping over roads under construction.  But finally, we arrived at the birth center.  It was strange to be there, in labor.  Every other time I'd walked through that door had been to talk to the midwives about the pregnancy, and about the day that I'd go into labor.  And now, the day had arrived.  The woman at the front desk came over to greet me, and said that the midwives were waiting for me, and had already set up my room.  I had chosen the largest room with the longest, most cushiony furniture, knowing that we might be there for a long time, and so I wanted a comfortable place for Adam to relax while I labored.

I was encouraged to get comfortable, so I immediately peeled off all my clothes.  I love being naked and unrestricted, and there is no better time to feel the freedom of clotheslessness than when you're in labor.  Adam wanted to take some last "belly shots" before I no longer had a baby belly, and so between contractions, I did my best to pose and look serene and peaceful.  Actually, it wasn't very hard because hard labor had not yet set in.  I was still feeling excited and relatively comfortable, despite increasingly more painful contractions every 3-4 minutes.  The midwives came back and did a pelvic exam, ascertained that I was only 1 cm dilated (disappointment!), and encouraged me to eat and drink and feel free to walk around.  I think I spent a lot of time texting family and friends to give them updates as to what was happening.  Adam had brought his tablet computer, so we watched several episodes of "The Office."  The midwives had encouraged us to watch tv that would make me laugh, to put me at ease and help me relax during labor.  After awhile, I started to get hungry for a real meal, so I got dressed, and we went to the kitchen area to microwave a meal.  Unfortunately, I had brought a ready-to-eat Indian meal, not realizing it was very spicy, so I had a hard time finding an appetite to eat it. I forced it down because I knew it was important to have sustenance, but I was disappointed that I hadn't planned my meals better.  I got a call from my girlfriend Libby while I was eating, and I had to stop every minute or so to let contractions go by.  But it felt nice to hear her warm, comforting voice as I labored.

After stuffing the last bites of spicy lentils down my gizzard, Adam and I went back to the birthing room to try to relax, which can be difficult when you're laboring.  Adam and I checked out a few sites on his tablet to pass the time, but eventually the strength and intensity of the contractions made concentrating on reading too difficult.  I decided to settle back in the bed and try to rest as much as possible.  Adam put on the music I had brought--calming Gregorian chants I'd gotten as a Christmas present from his cousin Debbie the month before--and turned the heat up in the room so I could settle in and prepare for laboring.  As time went on, and the contractions became more painful, I realized two things: 1) I had forgotten how painful labor is, and somehow wasn't mentally prepared for the amount of pain I was experiencing, and 2) with Bryony's birth, I had expected Adam to be more involved in taking care of me.  I was so angry with him for not holding me the way I wanted or massaging me, for just typing away on his computer for hours.  I realized laboring this second time that I needed to articulate to him what my needs were, that as a man, he was content to think I had it all under control unless I told him otherwise.  So, in between contractions, I calmly told him I needed his help.  He immediately put away the computer and turned into my own personal masseuse.  With every contraction, he kneaded my back exactly where I need him to.  I was surprised by how quickly the contractions seemed to become more manageable when he applied counter-pressure to my back.  Just as we had been a team in making this baby, we became a team once more in helping to get it out.

The midwives came back to check on me a couple hours later, and once again did a pelvic exam.  Before starting, Peggy said, "I want you to promise me that if you haven't dilated that you won't be disappointed.  I don't want you to give up."  I promised her, thinking it not possible that after so many hours of intense laboring I might not have dilated beyond the 1 cm.  When she was done, she looked down at me solemnly and shook her head.  She told me I was still at 1 cm.  I couldn't believe it.  It felt like the beginning of Bryony's birth all over again.  But I had promised I wouldn't lose my resolve, and so I re-committed to relaxing and navigating my way through every-one-minute contractions.  In the hours that followed, my mucous plug continued to come out, and I found that I needed to use the bathroom often, which in turn prompted strong and painful contractions while I sat on the toilet.  Adam was squatting beside me, or standing next to me, leading me to and from the bathroom the entire time.  Having him there was so special, even as I dealt with unbelievable pain and frustration.

In the hours that followed, I managed to lie down and fall asleep in short bursts.  Contractions seemed to mercifully slow down to every 2-3 minutes, which meant I could catch about 1-2 minutes of sleep before being awoken and needing to breathe and moan.  I don't know how, but I did it.  Despite how it all turned out, I am really proud of myself for that.  Once again, I was able to labor, drug-free, for days.

Time went by, Adam slept, I slept and woke, slept and woke, slept and woke.  In between it all, the midwives were coming to my room to take my blood pressure and pulse readings.  I wanted them to check for dilation, but they said it wasn't time yet.  I think, deep down, I kinda knew what was going to happen, but I hoped so hard that it wouldn't.  Around 5am, Peggy came in to do a pelvic exam.  Sadly, she told me the news I was already expecting.  I was still only at 1cm.  She said that in her opinion, I needed to start considering transferring to hospital.  Since I was attempting a VBAC, there was a (infinitesimally small, but still possible) chance of a uterine rupture, and with my being in active labor for so long with no dilation, she was worried my chances of rupture were increased.  We asked what our timeline was, and she said that we would need to be at the hospital by noon at the latest. However, she encouraged us to transfer as soon as possible, so that we would be there for the new rotation of nurses.

My heart was breaking.  Everything was so familiar, so sadly familiar.  I felt so disappointed, and felt like such a disappointment, to myself, to my baby, but mostly to Adam.  He had been the one to support me as I lobbied for an expensive birth center, and as I expounded upon the benefits of natural childbirth and attempting a VBAC.  And now, here I was, putting him through the same emotional roller coaster once again.  Gone was the promise of a joyous water birth with Dad catching our baby in the tub.  Gone was the expectation of filming the moment our family became a little bigger, a little more complete, with the addition of this sweet baby.  So much felt yanked away yet again.

Peggy offered me one last consolation: a tub bath.  She filled the tub with warm water to allow me to relax, and perhaps to grieve the water birth that would not be.  It felt good to labor in the bath, in a way that had not felt good when I was laboring with Bryony.  My only solace was that with this birth, I did not experience the never-ending piggy-backing contractions that plagued me during my labor with Bryony.

And so the process of transfer commenced.  We knew the drill well.  Get dressed.  Pack up clothes, comfort items, camera equipment.  Coordinate logistics with the midwife.  Which hospital are we going to?  Which entrance should be park at?  It was cold and icy that morning, and so we wished each other safe travels as Adam and I got into our car, and Peggy got into her car, and we drove caravan-style, to the hospital, 45 minutes away.  I kept apologizing to Adam.  He told me it wasn't my fault, that I had nothing to apologize for.  He said he was just disappointed for me.  That made me cry more.

The drive to the hospital was worse than the drive to the birth center.  Not only was I further into labor, so each contraction came more frequently and harder, but with this drive, I had less excitement.  Going to a hospital meant being cut open.  Not even the idea of meeting my sweet baby was enough to pull me out of the fear and sadness of another impending c-section.  We arrived at the hospital, and walked the myriad of hallways to labor and delivery.  People kept pointing the way, but it seemed to take forever to arrive.  No one offered me a wheelchair.  No one seemed at all sympathetic.  I guess they'd seen far too many laboring women, and so their empathy was deadened.  When we finally arrived at the labor and delivery desk, nurses staffing the desk immediately started handing us paperwork to fill out.  I tried, but couldn't fill it out through contractions.  I passed the paperwork to Adam, instructing him on the details that needed to be written in. Fortunately, a doctor--female--came quickly.  She was rough--I screamed when she manhandled me during a pelvic exam--but ascertained I was about 2cm dilated at that point.  Peggy, Adam and I wondered if the tub bath had relaxed me enough that I had started to dilate more.  I started to second-guess if perhaps I had stayed in the tub longer, would I have maybe dilated enough for an eventual birth center delivery?

The doctor hooked me up to an ultrasound machine to determine how well baby was doing. We emphasized that we didn't know baby's gender and didn't want to find out, so she was careful to talk in neutral terms.  Baby was doing fine, great actually.  The doctor eventually turned to me and asked what I wanted to do.  I stared at her, dumbfounded.  I didn't realize I had a choice.  I had assumed being transferred to the hospital meant I had to have a c-section.  When I articulated this, she said, "No, you and the baby are doing just fine.  If we can get this baby out without having to cut, that would be the best scenario.  So you're fine with laboring and seeing what happens?"  I couldn't believe how open she was being to my continuing to labor, especially since I'd already been doing so for 48 hours.  But she maintained that she didn't want to cut me unless she absolutely had to, so she was willing to try whatever we could so I could have a vaginal delivery.  I felt a little bit of resolve and empowerment return.  I wouldn't have a birth center delivery, but perhaps I could still have a vaginal birth. We all agreed that the only way I was going to relax enough to concentrate on resting and dilating and eventually pushing was if I got an epidural.  I hated the thought of drugs in my body (and a needle in my spine), but after 48 hours of consistent pain with little progression, I was hitting my wall.  So I got the epidural.  It took about 20 minutes before the contractions were abated, but eventually the pain subsided and I felt relaxed for the first time in days.  It's so easy to understand why women would choose to go with the epidural first thing, but despite everything, I'm glad I know the pain of childbirth.  It's a rite of passage, and I wear that experience as a badge of honor.

After awhile, the doctor decided to try using a Foley balloon (sac that's inserted into your cervix, then inserted with saline, to assist with dilation).  A friend had told me about it once, so I was a little familiar with it and agreed to it.  The insertion was easy, and the bag stayed in for about 5 minutes before it went flying out of me and across the room. Adam, Peggy and I burst out laughing.  I didn't know what that meant, but when the nurse came back in the room, we pointed out the deflated balloon across the room, and she went to get the doctor.  When the doctor checked me, I was dilated to 5 cm.  I couldn't believe it.  I could actually feel how things felt "open" and kinda stretched down there, and told Adam and Peggy how I had never felt that sensation before.  I was so hopeful that dilation would continue to progress.

It didn't.  About an hour or so later, I was checked again but was still stuck at 5 cm, so talk began about putting me on pitocin.  Oh, the ever-dreaded pitocin.  I wanted so badly to just yell no! but knew my options were limited.  So I submitted to them using pitocin to increase my contractions to hopefully get me further dilated.  I knew I should still be grateful that the medical staff hadn't already started slicing into me, so I tried to focus on relaxing and staying positive that the pitocin would do its job.

In the meantime, I spent a lot of time getting to know Peggy better, and Adam and I shared details of our lives with her.  It felt intimate and cozy, like a little tea party with a new best friend, rather than a disappointing delivery in a sterile medical setting.  But she had been an RN before she was a midwife, so she knew the hospital system, jargon and mindset well, and was excellent about interpreting it all for us.  She could also read the heart rate monitors for both me and the baby, so she could tell me if baby was still doing okay.  I appreciated that so much, and grew to love her.

After some time, the medical staff returned and said that baby was not responding well to the pitocin, and that they were going to reduce the levels or take me off of it completely to see if that helped.  It did.  Baby recovered and its heart rate went back to normal.  So the team upped the pitocin  again, but almost immediately, baby started to have an adverse reaction.  I knew in my heart that we had run out of options.  Peggy gave me a solemn look and told me that I needed to prepare myself.  And eventually, the doctor came back into the room with the news that they had exhausted all of their options, and the only thing left was surgery.  I tried so hard not to cry.  I couldn't look at Adam or Peggy or anywhere.  I felt like such a disappointment to everyone, but mostly to myself.  How could this have happened again?  I did everything right, and yet once more, I would end up on a cold slab, my arms pinned to the side, being cut open while I shivered uncontrollably, removed from the entire experience of my baby being brought into the world.  The reality was so painful to grasp.  I momentarily thought about refusing and just letting whatever would happen, happen.  But reason and self-preservation took over, and I nodded solemnly to the doctor.  I consented to the surgery.

The actual surgeon who would be performing the c-section came into the room, chipper and excited, not seeming to notice my demeanor.  I couldn't hold in the tears anymore and started crying.  She couldn't understand why I would cry.  "Oh, it won't matter how your baby came into the world once you're holding it!"she declared.  I looked at her angrily and sputtered, "It matters to me! It matters to me!"  Everyone stood around a little uncomfortably at that point, and the surgeon tried to cover the awkward silence with details about logistics.  Peggy put her arm around my shoulders and gave me a glance that said, I know how much this birth matters to you and I'm sorry it hasn't worked out the way you wanted.

At some point, around 7pm or so, they started getting me ready for surgery.  Adam dawned the scrubs and I started getting the pubic shave (so not fun) and preliminary washes and sterilizations.  Adam and Peggy walked with me as I got wheeled down to surgery, but unexpectedly, they told Adam to wait outside.  I was not prepared for this and got anxious and worried.  I begged them to please let me husband into the operating room as soon as possible.  Having him not be able to come in right away felt like one last indignity and I thought I was going to have an anxiety attack.  I started to cry.  But they followed procedure and only let him in once they were ready.  He had to sit on a stool by my head and talk to me from there, telling me what was going on.  As the technicians and nurses and doctors started pumping the various anesthesia into my IVs, I started to get cold shivers, and shook uncontrollably.  I asked for something to warm me, and the nurse brought me a warming blanket. Once the forced warm air that blew into the blanket started to calm my shivers, I decided to just separate myself from the entire experience and find comfort and peace within.  I let myself fall asleep.  I wanted to be away from the tugging and compression sensations I felt, the strangers talking over me as I lay there, helpless and completely powerless.  So I slept.  At some point the nurse started calling out to me, wanting to make sure I was conscious.  I didn't want to answer him; I just wanted to sleep, but eventually he called me again and shook me awake.  I assured him I was fine, but that I was finally warm and just wanted to escape.  I heard Adam conversing with the nurse above my head and then I fell asleep again.

At some point, I woke up to the sound of the doctor telling Dad to announce the baby's sex.  Adam and I were both caught off-guard.  He didn't have camera ready, I was barely awake, but the baby was already out.  Adam clumsily rose to look and I heard him say, "Another girl!  Lauren, we have another girl!"  I was happy, namely because Adam and I wouldn't have to argue over whether we were going to circumcise, not to mention I had secretly wanted another little girl (so did Bryony), and we had all the clothes and "stuff."  I asked Adam if she were beautiful, not really meaning that.  I really just wanted to know if there were any problems, but couldn't articulate the words.  He breathed out, "She's so beautiful.  She's perfect." Before the nurse would bring her to Adam, however, she declared, "Mom gets first peek since she did all the work."  I appreciated that, even if I didn't get to hold her.  At least my efforts of the last 3 days were being acknowledged in some form.  Adam got to work taking pictures and video of the baby was she was weighed and measured and cleaned.  She passed the Apgar test on the first try and let out a nice wail for us.  I was grateful for a healthy baby, but still sad that everyone in the room had seen her first and touched her before I could.

At some point baby girl was brought over to me so I could hold her.  I was still lying down and nearly immobile, so my ability to hold her was limited. I kissed her and met her for the first time and marveled in how much she looked like Bryony, but how different they were, too.  I knew I couldn't hold her much longer so I told Adam to take her.  I was exhausted, and the doctors were taking a long time putting me back together.  It turned out I had a lot of scar tissue buildup from my previous c-section, so they were lancing it all away before they stitched me up.  It took 1 1/2 hours. I smelled a lot of burning flesh.  We asked that our midwife be told that the baby was born and everyone was fine, since the surgery was taking so long.  I knew she'd probably start to get worried.  We found out later that the nurse mistook Peggy as my mother and explained why it was taking so long for "her daughter" to come out of surgery.  That made us laugh, but Peggy told me I could be her daughter any old time.

When I was finally wheeled out into a recovery room (essentially a hallway with sheets that cordoned off individual little "rooms"), I was encouraged to try breastfeeding, but I was still flat on my back and the nurses would not allow me to sit up properly to nurse.  Another convoluted, ridiculous part of the system.  Eventually, after 25 minutes, they let the bed incline a few degrees, just enough so that I could hold the baby and attempt to nurse.  She latched on right away, fortunately.  I think I loved her at that moment, but I was so tired and drugged and disconnected that it's hard to remember what I was feeling.  Peggy had the foresight to ask one of the nurses what position the baby had been in upon delivery.  The nurse said the baby's face was to the side...just as Bryony's had been.  Peggy said that my pelvic bones must be shaped in a way that doesn't allow my babies to turn and descend into the birth canal the way they're supposed to.  I knew this was my last child so I figured there was no way of knowing for sure if I would ever be capable of a vaginal delivery.

Sometime after that, I was shown to my private room.  I asked Adam to accompany baby to the nursery, where she was to be thoroughly cleaned and warmed, but the nurse said that parents are not allowed in (unlike when Bryony was born), but Adam insisted on watching from outside the nursery window.  I couldn't be there for my new little baby girl, so I was glad that Adam was so invested in watching over her.  Peggy left at that point, as she had been awake for hours on end, just like we had, and needed to go home to rest.  I didn't want her to leave, but I understood and thanked her and hugged her good-bye. At that point, it was just Adam, baby girl, and I.  Soon it would be time to call the family so we could tell Bryony she had a new little sister.  Thinking of Bryony made my heart swell with missing her; all I wanted was for her to be at the hospital right then.  Everything seemed out of balance and full of emotion.  But I tried to concentrate on our new sweet little gift.

We eventually, after two days, named her Samara Aspen Dior.  Like Bryony, she has a botanical first name and a city for a middle name.  Adam added the second middle name Dior to honor his grandmother Dorothy who died a few years ago.  Her initials -SA(D)M, spell out Sam, which was his paternal grandfather's name.  I'm not big on naming people after deceased relatives, so I left that up to Adam.

So that is Samara's birth story.  I can't believe I finally finished it.  She is 23 months now, just a month away from her second birthday, and she is a force!  A whirlwind of emotions, behaviors and desires that blows me away.  She is sweet and affectionate and loves to dance like her big sister, but she differs from Bryony with her strong will, changing temperament and "my way or the highway" approach.  I have no doubt she will grow to be a self-confident and decisive woman one day.  And, we all love her very much.

Ida B. Wells

This made me smile this morning.

The Writer's Almanac

As life has recently showed me in abundance, things are always changing. We no longer have a kindergartener, but now a rising first-grader (who is not at all happy about the prospect of homework, and truth be told, neither are her parents). For now, however, she is somewhat content to maintain status as a summer camper. We were told of this nearby summer camp by some other parents, and signed B right up. It's been touch and go in terms of her happiness level, but it'll do for now.

Camp starts earlier than school does, which means I can get her and the baby off to school and daycare and get to work at a reasonable hour for a change. I have been single parenting in recent days with A off doing Army stuff, so that has meant setting the alarm for early, and not going back to sleep for another half hour after it rings.

In these early morning hours, I have luckily rediscovered a special treat. I had long since forgotten that Garrison Keillor hosts ''The Writer's Almanac'' on weekday mornings on NPR. It's only five or so minutes, but hearing his voice, calm and soothing, a warm latte in hand while sailing on a still lake, is exactly what I ache for.

I have spent a lot of time processing in the last few months. I feel as though I have learned so much...about the world, about myself, about life. For now, I am taking away three lessons: be good to myself as deeply and frequently as possible; be good to others and love them hard and fiercely; and, don't wait, just do it now.  When I listen to Garrison Keillor every morning, I am being good to myself. As much as I adore his ''A Prairie Home Companion'' on Saturday evenings (it's truly one of my favorite things), hearing him in the morning is a kind of soul food I wouldnt have known I needed until I found it.

Don't wait. Keillor is in his 70s now, and despite my being a fan for close to two decades, I have never gone to one of his live shows. I realize now that I can't put it off for later, assuming I will make time to go someday. Someday must be now. We don't know how much time we have left. Don't wait. Do it now.

These days, I go to bed early, knowing I have an early wake-up ahead. But I don't mind as much now, because I have a friend to look forward to sailing with.

Sanctuary

I had a hard time coming up with a title for this post.  Nothing quite seems to capture what I want to say.  So I decided to just start writing and I'd let the title come to me as I type.

The past few weeks have been a nightmare mixed with moments of happiness and raw emotion.  I realize that I am running the risk of sounding melodramatic and as though I'm courting sympathy, and that's fine.  Not everyone will understand, nor do I expect folks to.  What I will say, however, is that losing a close friend under tragic, violent circumstances is a life-changing experience. I think it's impossible to see the world the same way again.  People's true natures come to light in times like these; the fabric of who they are capable of being is revealed, and oftentimes it's disappointing or even ugly.  And then there's my perception of the world.  I am fearful...for my kids, for myself and my husband.  I feel vulnerable, as though truly for the first time in my life I realize how at the mercy of others we are.  I keep my children close and love them hard and often.  I check, double check and triple check locks on doors.  I make sure my dogs are around when I'm home.  I am afraid of humanity.

There is joy, too.  There is the love that my family and close friends have expressed.  The love that knows not to ask too many questions, or to let me talk in my own due time.  The love that makes getting through another day bearable.

Losing someone you love is a strange thing, a dichotomy of different emotions.  There is a persistent cloud, a heaviness, a shadow that follows you around...first thing when you wake up, it's there; throughout the workday, it's there; laughing with friends and family, it's there; going to bed at night.  Always there.  It's an emotional and spiritual burden that I just wish would go away.  I want to be normal again.  I want to be ME again!  Aye, but there's the rub...once my cloud lifts, I won't be grieving anymore.  I will get on with my life, and (is it possible?) start to forget.  The idea or possibility of forgetting a loved one gone too soon makes for a guilt like no other.  It makes me consider my responsibilities as the friend who is left behind.

I know there are many in my life who have deep religious faith, and who wish that I shared this.  I don't.  While I respect that others do, and in some ways am even a tad envious that they have that faith to comfort them in times of great sorrow like this, I have found that my current situation makes my lack of faith even more concrete. And perhaps, in some ways, that does bring small comfort to me.  While the world, and my emotions, and all that is good and bad swirls around, and I unable to make sense of it all, knowing who I am inside is one little sanctuary.

And I just found the title to this post.

Good-bye, My Friend

Last week I lost a dear friend to a horrific crime.  My heart won't stop breaking and I'm not sure what to do or how to move on.

I wish I could have saved you, and I wish I had the chance to see you, to hug you, to love you just one more time.  I hope you know how incredibly special you are to me, and how much I cherish our friendship.

I love you, sweet friend. This morning, there were so many reminders of you everywhere.  I broke down and cried and cried.  You are everywhere and nowhere all at the same time, and it's unbearable.
I hope you can read this somehow. Perhaps you are hovering over my shoulder as I type.  Please stay close for your kids, your family, and for your friends who love you so much.  Selfishly, we need you here.

I can't say good-bye to you...not yet.  Just love, love, love...for my beautiful friend.

Actually...

Our little nest in the hanging basket has turned out to belong to a pair of house finches, not a mockingbird like I originally thought.  I saw a mockingbird defending territory from a robin right around the nest site, so that's why I was confused.  But the finch pair has been dedicated and doting to their clutch of SIX eggs.  I'd take a picture, but I don't want to unnecessarily disturb that mama and her babies.  Perhaps some hatchling photos once the babies have arrived...!

Spring Awakening

Several years ago, a colleague of mine--who is also an avid and gifted birder--told me that every spring, when birds start to migrate back to their summer grounds, she has vivid dreams.  They are filled with flocks of colorful, sweet-sounding birds flying in the sky over her head, through her bedroom window, larger than life and thrilling.  I remember that I laughed some when she first told me this, thinking,  Every spring you dream about birds?  Although I studied birds for my own research and thoroughly enjoy birdwatching as a hobby, I thought that she must reside on a totally separate plane of birding fandom, to have them infiltrate her dreams in such a spectacular way every year.

And then, a couple years ago, something happened.  I found that when we left the bedroom window open at night, and I'd wake up to the dawn chorus, the early morning cacophony of bird songs, my heart was alight even at 4 am. In the nights that followed, I'd start to dream, incredible and larger than life dreams of snowy owls swooping down over my head, of hawks and songbirds dancing in the sky. I would wake full of the excitement my dream self had had, looking around for someone to confide in who would care about these wonderful bird dreams as much as I did.

Spring migration has settled in once more, and I find that my eyes are often pointed the sky as soon as I step outside.  Our neighborhood is filled with a diverse blend of different species, in spite of it being part of such an urban metropolis.  We have red-tailed hawks, ospreys, turkey vultures, mockingbirds, robins, cardinals, blue jays, grackles, song sparrows, cowbirds, red-bellied woodpeckers, downy woodpeckers and catbirds, to name the most commonly seen visitors.

A few days ago was, quite simply, a day of birds.  As I walked to work, I noticed a starling in a yard I walked past, busily scuttling soil back and forth with its feet, presumably in search of insects.  Not a minute later, I was greeted by a catbird, sitting atop a fence line, not at all afraid of me as I walked past, unable to keep my eyes off it.  Another catbird flew into my path a short few steps later.  As I turned the corner, I heard the low, croaking, spine-tingling call of a common raven.  I looked up and saw it at the top of a building.  Ravens? Here? I thought it must be a crow, but as it took to flight, it seemed too big to be a crow, and besides, nothing can be mistaken for the raven call.  I watched it as it swooped the air, and then started to descend...down toward me.  I stood rooted, unable to move or think, just entranced by this big, guttural-sounding bird as it seemed poised to fly into me.  Actually, it never intended to fly into me, as the bird arched back into the air, flying over my head and into the forest of urban infrastructure beyond me.  A day of birds.

When I returned home that evening, one of my first tasks was to water the hanging baskets of flowers I'd gotten the weekend before.  The midday sun dries the soil so fast, so I've learned my daily post-work chore will have to be to water them.  I love it, though, as it gives me an excuse to be outside, looking for new birds, identifying the ones I already know, saying hello to Mr. and Mrs. Smith, the mourning dove couple that perches, side by side, on the electrical wire above our street.  As I took down the first basket, I was surprised to find a nest inside with one translucent egg taking up residence right in the middle. I breathed out a sigh of joyful contentment.  An egg!  A bird in my neighborhood knew the right house in which to make its home, for surely none of my neighbors would be more thrilled than me to find a bird nest in their hanging basket!  Since that day, two more eggs have been laid by what I think is a mockingbird.  The biggest challenge has been keeping my plant watered without disturbing the nest. Unfortunately, I think the plant will suffer a cruel death by dehydration once the chicks have hatched, as I would never disturb a new mother from her fresh, newly-hatched babies.

Ahhh!!!...days of birds.