Chapter 27 – A Father’s Bond…

     They lived in a small cabin next to a turbulent creek. The only access to their homestead was by a two-mile hike through the woods up a narrow trail. They had to pack in all their supplies. Kerosene lanterns provided their light. They cooked on a wood stove. It was a hardscrabble life, but they were miners on a small claim, so they stuck with it, hoping to strike pay dirt and get rich.

     She hadn’t wanted to get pregnant. It was not part of her plan. “One slip of the birth control and BAM,” she moaned. “Now a baby I don’t want is coming.” You could almost smell her unhappiness, like a cheap perfume that filled the still air of the exam room. It overwhelmed the small space.

     Her partner did not share her feelings. He was shocked, but pleased. “I’ve always wanted to be a dad. We’ll make it work. You’ll see. I feel hopeful,” he countered, trying to antidote her negativity.

     As the pregnancy progressed, his growing excitement pushed around the edges of her misery, but could not penetrate it. She suggested they put the baby up for adoption. The very idea made him shudder. He wanted it… they struggled.

     She seemed untouched by the lively movement within her body. He couldn’t keep his hands off her belly when the baby was kicking. “I would trade places with you, Hon, if I could. Seems so trippy to be able to feel life inside of you like that,” he said.

     As her delivery date approached, he convinced her to move into town to a little apartment, “just till we get settled in with the baby and get the hang of things,” he reasoned.

     Two weeks later she went into labor. As the contractions swept over her, she did not call out or even moan. She seemed distant and removed, indifferent to what was happening. He gave her cool juice to drink, wiped her face with a wet cloth and provided steady support with his encouragement.

     When it came time for her to push the baby out, I said to him. “Go wash your hands. Would you like to deliver your baby?” “Oh my God! Can I? Oh yes, I would love to be a part of the birth,” he stammered.

     As the baby descended, dark, wet, matted hair appeared at the opening of the vagina. “Here’s some oil. You can gently massage all around the baby’s head,” I suggested. Tenderly, he touched the baby’s head, tears filling his eyes. The baby delivered slowly into his hands, a little boy. His eyes opened wide and he stared one-pointedly at his father. Their eyes locked as they held each other in their gaze. It was silent. Then he began to murmur little loving sounds to his son, reassuring him.

     After the cord was cut he offered the baby to the mother. She stirred a little and reached down to bring him to her chest. Instantly he latched on to her breast and began to suckle. As he nursed, her eyes gazed out the window—empty, detached.

     I did home visits for the first six weeks and the baby seemed to flourish. While she fed the baby, the rest of his care fell to his father who attended his every need.

     I did not see them after that. They never returned. Then, one day in a supermarket, I saw him with his son who was now about two years old. “Hello. It’s so wonderful to see you again. Your son is beautiful. How are you?” I asked.

     His eyes became sad. “She left us when he was four months old. Said she couldn’t do it any more. It’s not her fault. She just wasn’t cut out to be a mother. She disappeared, and I don’t know where she is,” he said. “It was so hard. I thought I would go crazy. But you know…when he was born and my hands were the first to touch him, and when he looked into my eyes like he did, something happened to me. He captured my heart. I knew then that we would make it somehow. I knew that I would give up my life for him. Thank you for that gift—for letting me deliver my own child. We formed a bond in that moment that has held us together through these difficult times. Who knew what trials we would be given to bear together. I have never loved anyone like I love my son. Our bond will never be broken.”

     Then he slowly walked away. Laughing. His eyes sparkling once again.

    

     

Through Death...A Priceless Gift

      Her son greeted me warmly at the door. As soon as I entered the house, I felt like I had stepped into a sanctuary of grace. It was very calm, and the energy in the room was not heavy with sadness. An old dog was curled up, basking in the sun streaming through the patio window. Classical music was softly playing. The fragrant smell of fresh bread came from the kitchen.

     I quietly slipped into her room. The light was dim with just candles burning. I walked over and sat in the chair next to her bed, taking hold of her frail, outstretched hand. She was surrounded by soft, fleece blankets and big pillows which cushioned her gaunt, eighty-pound frame. Though her body had almost dissolved, her radiance filled the room, drawing us in. As I sat beside her, her soft eyes looked deeply into mine and we sat there for a long time, not uttering a word.

     Finally, her surprisingly firm voice said, “Hello and who are you?” she asked.

     “I’m Candace, a nurse from hospice,” I replied. “I’ve come to see how are you feeling today?”

     “Wonderful. I am just wonderful. I feel like I am at a posh resort. They take such good care of me here,” she beamed, looking at her son and daughter-in-law.

     Then she fingered the turquoise pendant hanging around my neck. “That’s beautiful,” she said. “Yes, it is,” I responded. “Would you like to have it?” 

     “Nah…I’m dying you know. No need for bling,” she replied with a twinkle in her eye.

      “How is your pain,” I asked.

      “It’s not bad. They have good drugs in this place,” she replied, laughing.

     “I’ve also come to change the dressing over that pressure sore on your bottom. Would you mind if I did that?” I asked. “I wouldn’t mind, but I don’t want anyone else looking at my bony bottom,” she teased. I’m very vain, you know.

     Her son crawled into bed with her and gently and tenderly turned her over on her side where he held her close to him while I carefully replaced the dressing. “Isn’t he the best!” she exclaimed, as they nuzzled each other.

     When we turned her back over, her eyes closed. It didn’t take much to tire her out. I continued to sit quietly by her side. She had whammied me and I felt caught in her spell. I realized that I did not want to leave.

     Reluctantly I returned to the living room to finish my notes. Her son joined me. “She is always like that,” he said. “Everyone who sees her can’t leave, and when they do they feel like they have been given a priceless gift.”

     “She has been the best mother anyone could have ever had. There is no unfinished business between us. Now in these remaining days we just enjoy and love each other. When she isn’t so tired she sings me songs that she used to sing me when I was a little child. I have taken a leave of absence from work. The most important thing I can do in my life right now is to accompany her on this final journey. It is an opportunity for me to repay her kindness,” he said with tears in his eyes.”

     The visit was over and I bid them goodbye. One week later I received word that she had passed away in the arms of her son and daughter-in-law. They asked that we not call the mortuary until the following day. They wanted time with her body as they had promised her they would carry out some ceremonies after she passed.

     Twenty-four hours later they called me. “You seemed to have had such a strong connection with my mother,” he said. “Would it be possible for you to come and help us bathe and dress her before the mortuary comes?” “Yes, of course, I would be honored. I’ll be right there.”

     When I went to her bedside I was struck with how peaceful she looked. We bathed her in rose scented water and rubbed her favorite lotion all over her body. Then we dressed her in a silk, turquoise dress that she had worn to their wedding last year. They picked flowers from the garden and adorned her as a final touch. Now it was time to let her go…

      I have received some very precious advice as a hospice nurse. When you take time before entering a house to pause and empty yourself of personal agendas and expectations, you can more readily receive what a family is ready to give you. She and her family generously showed me that it is possible to face death with humor and a loving heart, without fear—indeed, a priceless gift…

    

     

     

Chapter 25 - A genteel birth...

     She was gracious and lovely—a southern woman. Her clothes swirled in soft folds around her petite body. Auburn, smooth hair fell straight to her shoulders. A true lady, as my dad used to say.

      Her husband was a gentleman—mannerly and cordial, always dressed in a tie and white shirt when he accompanied her. He called her missy. She called him darling.

     During her prenatal visits I found myself seduced by her lyrical, South Carolina accent. I could see her on the porch of a stately manor sipping ice tea on a hot summer afternoon.

     I wondered…Labor can be such a noisy, sweaty business, and she was so delicate and gentle. I was trying to picture it.

     She called me one Sunday morning. “My pains have been coming over me for some time now, and I think I should come into the birth room,” she said calmly.

     She didn’t sound like she was in very active labor, but I said, “Sure, I’ll see you there in a few minutes, and we’ll check things out.”

     She and her husband entered the room in a hush—like they were being held in a protective bubble. I gently examined her. Seven centimeters!

     They crawled up on the bed, spooned together. Quiet. Sometimes whispering.

     I sat in the corner of the room, watching over them. I entered into her stillness and stayed very focused and present, not saying a word.

     They were entwined together—riding the waves of her contractions as if in a small boat bobbing gently in a rough sea, barely disturbed by its turbulence.

     Her breathing quickened, her face was flushed, but not a sound did she make. She didn’t move either, but lay on her side, embraced by her husband.

     I began to hear little grunts in her breath and knew that she was close to pushing. I lifted her top leg and let it rest on my shoulder. I felt her bearing down.

     The bag of waters appeared at the opening of her vagina and gave way—the water trickling down onto the bed. Soon after, the baby slipped out. She reached down and lifted him to her breast. He was alert and pink and breathing, but he did not cry out. He was quiet…like his parents. They tucked him into their private bubble.

     Sometimes people are surprised by what comes out when giving birth, by what they discover about themselves. But like this couple, sometimes the birth just provides a deep reflection of truth already evident. Honest and perfect.

    

    

     

Chapter 24 - Midwifing the Dying

      Five days ago I was so sick, it felt in some way like I was dying. I had a raging fever. Weakness and fatigue clogged every cell in my body, making it impossible to surface into any functional level of consciousness. I felt buried in a stupor I couldn’t climb out of. I was sinking. I faded in and out of awareness, and in my oppressive fog I imagined—if I were in fact actively dying—how would I be? What would I need at that moment?

     I knew… A midwife. I would need and want someone with the qualities of a midwife… to sit with me, to bring their strength and wisdom to my bedside, and to hold me with their calm, fearless presence—someone unafraid to bear witness to my suffering.

     I am a hospice nurse now so I am with the dying almost every day. I see them move through the various stages of their final journeys, each in their own unique way. I watch them struggle, as they come face to face with the raw truth that they will soon leave this life.

     Just as in giving birth, there comes a time when this struggle usually gives way to surrender. They go to a place no one else can go—tucking in, letting the wave take them. At this time they are crossing over—whether giving birth or dying— because both are dramatically leaving the known and opening to the unknown.

     It is my experience that to accompany someone at that time is to enter into their dance, to ride their ride, and to match their courage with our full attention. It’s all about them. It’s their time. They need us to support their letting go, and to help ground them with our presence until they do.

     Midwives do this extremely well. I believe that’s why so many are called into hospice work.

     I am on the mend now, but in the peak of my illness, I had the gift of a very tiny glimpse into what it might feel like to leave my body. And knowing what I felt I would need, I hope, will make me a better hospice nurse who can provide that for others.    

     

Chapter 23 - The Treasure Box...

     “I’m a wuss,” she declared. “I have serious doubts that I can do this. When things get tough in my life, my habit is to change my mind and walk out. Well, I won’t be able to do that in the middle of the birth now will I. There goes my escape plan!” she laughed nervously.

      “Every woman comes to a point in her labor when she wants to give up,” I explained. “You will too. You will feel certain that you can’t go on one more minute—that you have come to the end of your resources,” I told her.

     “That is a significant moment. It is a sign that you are almost there, and it is then—when you feel you have nothing left to draw from—that you are given the key to open your treasure box. Inside you will behold the wonder and depth of your capacity to reach far beyond anything you thought was possible.”

     “You will enter the stream of all women who have gone before you and pushed life from their bodies. Together—you and your baby—will reach into reserves of courage and strength that will amaze you.”

     “We rarely look into this box…none of us,” I confessed. “It’s too easy to quit what we are doing when we don’t want to do it anymore—when life feels too difficult. We can just basically ‘drop the course’. We hold back.”

    “One of the gifts in labor is that we don’t get to do that. We get to see what we really are capable of, and that is a treasure you will take with you for the rest of your life,” I said.

     “There are few things more powerful than a woman giving birth,” I said. “It is a time when she transcends her limitations and soars into a greater possibility of being. It’s a time when you get to go for it, holding nothing back. Trust me. You are about to enter into an indescribable adventure!”

     “Well, that’s a heroic perspective,” she laughed. “I’m very curious now.

     She went into labor a month later. Excited, she dug in and worked hard. The hours passed and her labor intensified. She began to feel very discouraged.

     “I can’t do this. I need drugs. Can’t you just do a C-section? Do something!”

     “You’re eight centimeters…almost there,” I encouraged. “You’re doing a great job. This is the moment to go into that treasure box. The strength you need is there. Call on your baby to help. We are all here with you. You can do it.”

     “The damn treasure box moment, eh!” she cried. “Okay, little one—let’s do this!”

     Standing with her legs spread wide apart, she began to rock her hips. Sweat was pouring from her body.

     She gave voice to the intensity ripping through her. She roared and shouted, “Come out, come out, come out!”

     Eyes closed, she tucked in—to a place none of us could fathom. We stayed close to her, whispering words of encouragement, moving with her rhythm, in awe of her power.

     She was mighty as she pushed her child into the world. “I did it. Oh my God, I did it.”

     Later, as the baby was quietly nursing, she looked at me—incredulous. “Who was that woman who just gave birth?” she asked. “I never thought I had it in me. I was really something, wasn’t I?” she said with a dreamy, satisfied smile on her face.”

     “Yes, yes indeed…you were amazing!”

    

      

Chapter 22 - A Sexual Awakening...

     It was three o’clock in the morning. My car weaved its way home through pockets of low-lying mist along a desolate mountain road. As I turned the corner, I saw a bobcat silhouetted against the moon lit sky. A Bach concerto was playing loudly on my radio and I rolled down my window to let it serenade the night.

     I knew that sleep would not come easily to me—I was still deeply stirred. It was a birth where my presence had not been necessary.

     Earlier in the evening she had called to tell me she was in labor. “It’s time for you to come. Perhaps you should not dawdle,” she said.

     I drove quickly to her home, and slipped gently into her room. The lights were dim. Candles were glowing on the bedside table. Soft music was playing. She was lying naked on her side in their big bed with her husband cuddled in beside her. Their two-year old son was sleeping beside them.

      I quietly sat on the floor near their bed. Her contractions were coming frequently—her breath, deep and sensual. She moaned softly.

      “Oh, this feels so good,” she whispered—her face flushed. I nodded, not saying a word.

     “It won’t be long now,” she let me know. “Soon it will happen.”

     Her husband kissed her neck and massaged her body with sweet scented oil. Little Joey stirred and snuggled closer to his parents, his hands reaching out to touch them in his sleep.

     I sat very still and quiet—waiting—trying to not disturb their intimacy.

     Her breathing deepened. She looked at me and smiled. “Oh yes, I feel the baby coming.”

     As she turned over in bed, her husband curled behind her, pulling her close to his chest. Joey woke up and draped himself over his mother, rubbing her arms.

     As she gently pushed, her moaning became erotic. I dribbled some warm oil over her perineum, and her hand reached down to massage the baby’s head as it slowly emerged.

     Yes…unmistakable...As the head delivered into her hands, she climaxed.

     She leaned forward. The shoulders slipped out, and while holding the baby under the arms, she giggled, “Oh my, little one, I feel your feet still wiggling inside of me. Who are you? A boy? A girl? Are you ready to meet your mommy? Shall I have you come to me?”

     She then pulled him out and brought him to her breast. Immediately their three sets of hands embraced and caressed the baby.

     I stayed seated quietly at the foot of the bed, tears streaming down my face.

     “My placenta’s coming,” she said after a few minutes.

     “Yes…I see." Another push and the placenta slipped out. I gathered up my things and tiptoed from the room, leaving this loving family to themselves.

     She told me later that with this birth she had a sexual awakening. I had heard that birth could be orgasmic, but this was the only time I had been witness to such a moment.

     She went on to have a third child, but delivered effortlessly before I could arrive. She must have known that she would not really need me this time either…

    

     

Chapter 21 - Birth in Spite of the Mother...

      Caroline was twenty-five, but looked twelve. She wore her frizzy red hair in two braids, and a splattering of freckles covered her pale, taut cheeks. At four foot eleven she was as thin as a stick and as feisty as a banty hen.   

     Though she said she was excited to be a mother, she was high strung and anxious and pregnancy was a challenge for her. “Sign me up for baby take out,” she’d joke every visit.

     In her seventh month I broached the subject of birth…

      “I don’t want to talk about that!” she protested, hands covering both of her ears.

     “What do you mean you don’t want to talk about that?” I asked, puzzled. “Giving birth is something you will be doing in a few months. Don’t you want to know what to expect?”

     “NO!” she screamed, and jumped up out of the chair to make her point. “Absolutely not. I don’t want to give birth. Listen to me; this is very important. When it’s time, just knock me out, cut me open and rescue the baby,” she begged, her voice trembling. “Besides…” she added, “I’m not capable of giving birth. I’m too small.”

     “Where did you get the idea that your body isn’t big enough to deliver a baby?” I asked.

     “From my mama, that’s where. She said her doctors told her years ago that her body was too little, and it would be dangerous to try and deliver vaginally—that the baby would just bash up against her bones. All her kids were born by C-section. I’m just like her!”

     “Well, you may be little on the outside, Caroline, but I can assure you that you have a pelvis you could drive a truck through! Your body is more than adequate. It’s perfect.”

     “Why should I believe you and not my mama,” she cried. “I’m too scared to try and give birth. Do you think I would want to hurt my baby?”

     I offered her books to read, I tried everything I could to neutralize the negative seeds that had been planted in her fertile, pregnant mind stream, but the seeds had taken root and there was nothing I could do to assuage her deep and impenetrable fears that vaginal birth would harm her child.

     I had no idea what was going to happen, except that sooner or later the baby was going to come out, one way or the other.

     Sadly I suspected this would be a self-fulfilling prophecy for a C-section. It’s very difficult for a body to open up when the woman doesn’t want it to. There is an innate wisdom there to hold back when there is perceived danger.

     Three weeks from her due date I got a call that they were bringing in a woman in labor by ambulance.

     “Her family called us because she’s hysterical and acting crazy,” the medic said. “Bellowing her head off, hollering…’NO, MAKE IT STOP’… over and over. She’s flinging herself all over the ambulance here, kicking and swinging her arms. This is one freaked out chick. Good luck.”

      I could hear her protests as the ambulance pulled into the hospital. From the low pitch of her voice she sounded like she was far along in her labor.

     She looked at me, her eyes wide and terrified.

     “Hurry. Cut it out before he gets hurt,” she screamed.

     “Caroline, Everything is okay. I won’t let anything bad happen to you or the baby. I need to get your pants down so we can check you.”

     Ducking to miss her flailing legs, I wrestled her pants off and with an exam glove on, could feel that the baby’s head was down on the perineum, ready to be born.

     “Well, I’ll be damned,” I said. “This kid just took matters into his own hands, in spite of his mother.”

     “Caroline, open your legs. Your baby is right here. Do you want the first thing your baby hears to be your screaming? Now hush dear woman and let your baby come out.”

     Lying on her side with one leg gripped around my neck and shoulder, and despite her continued protests, the baby shot out into the bed like a cannon ball without much assistance from anyone.

     She disentangled herself from my neck and leaned forward to scoop him up, incredulous.

     “Is he okay? Is he okay?” she asked fretfully, kissing his head, counting every finger and toe.

     “Did he really come out of my body? My God, it worked. Wait till I tell my mama.”

     “Yep, he’s perfect,” I assured her. “And so are you…”

     I have always entertained a hypothesis that babies are not passive participants during the birth—that the way they get born is often reflected in their personalities.

     Maybe this was the case with this little guy, because as he grew up, he had an uncanny knack of easing the heat of his mom’s fears and infusing her with bravery when she became paralyzed…which she did from time to time.

    

    

    

    

     

Chapter 20 – Ode to Joy…

     She sat in my office—her curly hair pulled back severely in a pony tail, wearing a long sleeved, yellow flowered dress buttoned up to the neck, even though it was a warm summer afternoon.

      Her story was a painful one. She told it in a soft, tentative voice, slumped over in her chair—almost seeming apologetic for taking up my time with her words.

      Married right out of high school to a handsome, charismatic man who became, over time, a controlling and over protective husband.

      “I try to please him, to be the obedient, submissive, stay at home wife he wants, but he says cruel things to me, mocks me, and I feel beat down.

     When we make love he wants me to leave my nightgown on, and he turns off the light because he says he doesn’t want to see me naked. We hardly talk any more, and now this…”

     “He’s so angry. He doesn’t want me to be pregnant. He said I would get disgustingly fat, and he told me that children would mess up our life,” she said, tears welling up in her eyes. “He also said that if I go ahead with this, I’m on my own.”

     “And you? How are you feeling about having a baby?” I gently asked.

     She slowly raised her head and looked around, as if to see if she would be overheard. “I really want this baby. More than anything I want to be a mother!”

     “Well then,” I replied, taking hold of her hand. “I will do what I can to support you.”

     Two weeks later she returned and told me that her husband had left her. “For the first time in years I am alone and I realize that I can finally breathe again.”

      With every prenatal visit she revealed new discoveries she had made about herself. She started writing poems that she would share with me, revealing a deep and complex inner life. Slowly she peeled away the layers of insecurity and shame she had carried for so long.

     She began to delight in her body—full and swollen with life. She wore form fitting tee shirts to show it off. “I feel so bold and brazen.”

     We talked about the impending birth. “I think I’m as ready as I can be,” she said. My mother will help me.”

     When she came into labor she looked confident and radiant.

     She brought music to support her. The dramatic refrains of Beethoven’s Ninth filled the room.

     She loosened her hair and let it cascade down her back. Her clothes fell off of her body and her eyes closed as she undulated and swirled to the music.

     “I never thought I was capable of this. Wow!”

     “…Damn, this hurts. How incredible.”

     “…This is hard. This is so amazing.”

     Sweat glistened on her body as she moved around the room. I was transfixed as I watched her immerse herself in the music, playing it over and over—with each contraction digging deeply into her vast reserves of courage and strength. She reached in and she found her power.

     At the peak of the chorale she screamed, “YES, I HAVE BECOME A WOMAN, A MIGHTY WOMAN!”

     With the next contraction her body began to bear down and an hour later she pushed out a nine-pound boy whose cry was strong and lusty.

     Later as she lay there cuddled up with her son who was nursing greedily at her breast, she said to me with a satisfied look on her face, “Ode to Joy—perfect birth music, don’t you think.”

    

    

    

    

    

Chapter 19 - An Irish Birth...

     He matched her almost pound for pound during her pregnancy—even kept a scorecard in his wife’s chart to measure his progress. When she experienced nausea and heartburn, so did he. He was sympathetic to her every sensation.

     “I wish men could be pregnant,” he confided in me one day. “Imagine carrying life inside your body, feeling it move around and stuff. Wow. What I wouldn’t give to experience that. I think a pregnant woman is the most damn, beautiful creature on earth!”

     Michael was Irish, romantic, and deeply in love with his wife. He spoiled her and she loved it—breakfast in bed, evening walks by the river. She told me that he would read to her at night and massage her feet. “This is what I can do— how I can start to be a father—by taking care of my wife who gets to do all the work,” he explained.

     Their prenatal visits were a delight. They would have me laughing till tears poured from my eyes. He learned how to feel for the position of the baby and the highlight was when he could hear the heartbeat. He would listen for a long time, grinning and tapping his fingers on her belly to mark the beat.

     Sometimes other members of the extended family or close friends would pile into the exam room for the visit, all talking over each other, everyone needing to feel and listen to the baby.

     So when she went into labor on Christmas Eve I wasn’t surprised to see ten extra people pour into my clinic where the birth room was located. They arrived, arms full of food and libations, carrying a little decorated Christmas tree and presents. “They’re for the baby.”

     They laid out a spread of snacks and began pouring the wine. Michael had a flask of whiskey, which he sipped from time to time, to “help with my nerves and such,” he said.

     Her labor puttered through the afternoon. Candles were burning and Christmas lights twinkled on the tree. The room was warm and cozy and spirits were high. More food and guests streamed in. It was getting pretty crowded.

     Whereas she was the life of the party in the beginning, I could see her now begin to tuck in, quiet and focused. It wasn’t long before her contractions intensified and she got down to serious work, becoming oblivious to the swarms of people gathered around her.

     Michael was by her side, breathing in sync with her every breath, sweat trickling down his face, hair standing up on end, flask in his back pocket. After every contraction a roar would erupt from the crowd, encouraging her on, carrying her on the wave of their enthusiasm.

     When she started to push Michael was at the foot of the bed because he wanted to “catch” the baby. Just as the head was beginning to appear, she looked aghast at her husband. “MICHAEL, FOR GOD’S SAKE MAN, COMB YOUR HAIR. THE BABY’S COMING,” she suddenly shouted.

    He was incredulous. “How do you have the presence of mind to think about something like that right now!” The room erupted in laughter, and someone whipped out a brush and brought his unruly hair into submission, just before the baby was born.

     The newborn girl was swept up into the arms of her parents, and then embraced by her loving, extended family. The wine continued to flow as the baby’s presents were opened. When all was well I sat back and beamed at this amazing boisterous bunch. The celebration continued unabated.  “Lock up when you leave. Merry Christmas.” I said, as I quietly slipped out the door.