This is part three of Isaac's birth story. Catch up here first:
Prologue
Part One
Part Two
Suddenly, it was morning.
My nurse was a tall, blonde, athletic woman who greeted us with a smile as she entered the room. I watched as she quickly and efficiently went about her routine checking my vital signs and listening to the baby's heartbeat. She switched out the bag of antibiotics that were being given to me by IV, and asked how I was feeling.
I didn't sleep well, I admitted.
Try to get some rest, she said cheerfully. I'll be back soon with your Pitocin to get things started.
*
When I was younger and first contemplating things like marriage and pregnancy, the long epidural needle frightened me more than the thought of simply enduring labor pains. As I got older, and my friends began to have babies, it always struck me as funny (and a little odd) to hear them talk about napping and watching television during the late stages of labor. So when I became pregnant myself, I immediately knew that I wanted to try to have a natural, unmedicated birth, with as few interventions as possible.
Which is why, when the nurse said the word Pitocin, my heart sank. Inducing labor with Pitocin was an intervention I had fervently wanted to avoid, but at this point in our situation, I knew I probably didn't have much of a choice.
The gap between what I had hoped to experience and what was actually happening began to widen.
*
The midwife on duty was apologetic and prone to rambling.
I'm so sorry, she said. I should have come and talked to you before sending in the nurse. It's just that most women can't wait to be induced. We don't get many women who actually want a natural birth these days.
We listened closely as she explained in detail the situation we were in.
I had experienced a Preterm Premature Rupture of the Membranes (PPROM), a fairly rare situation where the water breaks before the 37th week of pregnancy, prior to the onset of labor. One of the biggest concerns at that point was the risk of infection - the protective amniotic sac was broken, it was no longer able to shield the baby from dangerous and potentially fatal infections.
At 33 weeks, the standard procedure is to use medication to try to keep the baby growing in the womb. At 35 weeks, it's widely accepted that it's safe to induce and deliver.
I was 34 weeks pregnant, a little bit of a gray zone. Sometimes babies do well if delivered that early, and sometimes they do not.
My midwife and the other doctors believed that at this point the risk of infection was greater than the risk of delivering early. They agreed that the best course of action would be to induce and deliver.
*
Aaron and I spent some time praying and talking about it. I cried and worried that the baby wouldn't be ready. My mind wandered through scenarios and statistics. I cycled through anger and frustration.
But in the end, we agreed to the induction. The decision felt a little like rolling a die or flipping a coin.
Even at that point, despite the obstacles, my midwife was very kind and sensitive to my desire to try to labor without drugs. She knew that the contractions from Pitocin would likely be unmanageable without an epidural, so she offered to first let me try a very small amount of an oral prostaglandin, a drug that ripens the cervix.
Best case scenario, she said, it will kick start your contractions, and then your body will just take over. If it works, you won't even need the Pitocin.
*
It was three o'clock in the afternoon when I took the prostaglandin.
An hour passed. Aware of what was coming (and not willing to go through it with unshaven legs), I begged my mom to bring me a razor. When she arrived, I showered, and then sat in front of her and let her braid my hair like she used to do when I was a little girl. Her hands were cool and comforting.
I felt a dull ache wrap around my body and squeeze my abdomen. The contractions seemed to be intensifying, but they were still uneven and irregular. Our doula arrived, bearing gifts of candy. She practiced breathing with me while we sat, waiting for something to happen.
*
At seven o'clock, a new nurse arrived. Her name was the same as mine, and she was young and sweet. At this point my contractions were coming fast and strong. I remember everyone in the room being excited that the prostaglandin had worked - labor had started, I was on my way.
I spent time on the birthing ball, trying to speed things up by bringing the baby down. During contractions, I leaned on my mom while Aaron applied counter-pressure to my back. In between contractions, I was still able to talk a little. Because of the high-risk nature of the pregnancy, I was tethered to the fetal monitoring machine and an IV, so I wasn't able to leave the room.
I shuffled a small path from the ball to the bathroom, from the bathroom to the ball.
*
Time started to slip away. I remember that at one point I saw blood, and I began to panic because it was a graphic glimpse of the reality of what was happening to my body.
I couldn't handle being upright anymore, so I moved to the bed, where I laid on my side and closed my eyes.
I grasped the bed rail, tightly.
*
It is dark and late, and I am drowning. I see it looming: a wave. A huge, gigantic wave that I am powerless to escape. I watch as it threatens to overtake me, and then suddenly - impact. The strength of it knocks me down and drags me under, sending me hurtling, flailing, into the void.
I desperately want to breathe.
*
The pain became so intense that I started to fear every contraction. I became frantic as it would build within my belly, my eyes roaming around the room, my voice desperate and shrill. I was a wild animal searching for escape. Please help me. Please. Help. Me.
My doula grasped my hands and fixated her eyes on mine. She spoke in a firm, calm voice, and I clung to it. Over and over we faced them down together.
There and back. She saved me every time.
*
It was eleven o'clock, maybe later. The contractions were unbearable and I thought I felt the urge to push. The young nurse came and checked my cervix.
Five centimeters, maybe six? she said softly, with an apologetic tone.
I was crushed. How could I only be halfway there? If the pain was this bad at only five centimeters dilated, I knew I would never be able to handle it during the later, more intense transition period that I had learned about in childbirth class.
I faltered. I began to whimper for something to relieve the pain. Drugs, I whispered forcefully, in between contractions.
I think I need it. I'm pretty sure. Please. I can't do this anymore. I really think I need it now.
*
My midwife entered the room. She watched me labor for a few minutes, listening to my unsure requests for medication. Something must have caused her to question the young nurse's assessment of five centimeters, because she decided to check me herself.
Nine, she said authoritatively. You're almost there.
I smiled a huge smile. Instantly, I knew I didn't need the drugs after all. The pain was the same, but mentally - a switch had been flipped.
The end was in sight.
Click here to read the final installment: Isaac's Birth Story: Part Four
_
home is wherever i'm with you...
Aaron and I have a really crazy ‘how we met’ story. Maybe I’ll tell it sometime on this blog, but for now, the short version is: our relationship started as a whirlwind long-distance romance that ultimately led to his moving from Ohio to Arizona to be with me (despite the fact that we had been together in person only a handful of times).
We were young and crazy in love. It didn’t matter where we lived, as long as we were together.
We said stuff like that a lot, back then. I have the embarrassingly mushy letters and emails to prove it. I was so head-over-heels for that man that I would have lived in a cardboard box if it meant that we would be together.
That was over eight years ago. Since then, we’ve slowly built a life here in Arizona, in a tiny, 900 square foot apartment (that, ironically, actually resembles a cardboard box in shape and color) in the heart of Central Phoenix.
At first we lived here out of necessity. The rent was cheap and the location was good, perfect for a newlywed couple just starting out. Over time, however, we grew to love the place for its own sake – the quiet community, the wonderful restaurants nearby, the view of the mountains and city lights, and the amazing mountain preserve just steps from our door.
Sure, the carpet is dingy and the fluorescent kitchen lighting makes me cringe. But it’s home. And I love it.
Which is why, when we gave our notice to the apartment complex this weekend that we are planning to move out next month, I cried – big fat hot tears.
An opportunity recently came up for us to move into a bigger place, and we decided we can’t pass it up. I know in my head that it is the right decision; practically speaking, we ran out of space here YEARS ago. Having a kid and expanding our photography business finally pushed us to our limit. It will be amazing to finally have a place to spread out and not feel like a sardine maneuvering for space in a tiny can.
But in my heart I can’t bear to go. I hate to leave behind the place that holds all the memories of my early adult life – that spot in the living room where we proudly placed our first piece of “real” furniture, the bathroom floor where I collapsed when I saw the positive sign on the pregnancy test, the place where Isaac toddled his first few steps.
I’m sentimental, I know.
A few weeks ago, I lucked into a ticket to a show featuring the band Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros. As they played their hit song “Home” (listen to it here if you haven’t heard it) I sang along to the lyrics:
Home
Let me come home
Home is wherever I’m with you
That’s the song that’s getting me through, the song that repeats in my head when I’m packing away our belongings. I’m lucky, because home is STILL wherever I’m with you:
Photo by Scott Foust
We were young and crazy in love. It didn’t matter where we lived, as long as we were together.
We said stuff like that a lot, back then. I have the embarrassingly mushy letters and emails to prove it. I was so head-over-heels for that man that I would have lived in a cardboard box if it meant that we would be together.
That was over eight years ago. Since then, we’ve slowly built a life here in Arizona, in a tiny, 900 square foot apartment (that, ironically, actually resembles a cardboard box in shape and color) in the heart of Central Phoenix.
At first we lived here out of necessity. The rent was cheap and the location was good, perfect for a newlywed couple just starting out. Over time, however, we grew to love the place for its own sake – the quiet community, the wonderful restaurants nearby, the view of the mountains and city lights, and the amazing mountain preserve just steps from our door.
Sure, the carpet is dingy and the fluorescent kitchen lighting makes me cringe. But it’s home. And I love it.
Which is why, when we gave our notice to the apartment complex this weekend that we are planning to move out next month, I cried – big fat hot tears.
An opportunity recently came up for us to move into a bigger place, and we decided we can’t pass it up. I know in my head that it is the right decision; practically speaking, we ran out of space here YEARS ago. Having a kid and expanding our photography business finally pushed us to our limit. It will be amazing to finally have a place to spread out and not feel like a sardine maneuvering for space in a tiny can.
But in my heart I can’t bear to go. I hate to leave behind the place that holds all the memories of my early adult life – that spot in the living room where we proudly placed our first piece of “real” furniture, the bathroom floor where I collapsed when I saw the positive sign on the pregnancy test, the place where Isaac toddled his first few steps.
I’m sentimental, I know.
A few weeks ago, I lucked into a ticket to a show featuring the band Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros. As they played their hit song “Home” (listen to it here if you haven’t heard it) I sang along to the lyrics:
Home
Let me come home
Home is wherever I’m with you
That’s the song that’s getting me through, the song that repeats in my head when I’m packing away our belongings. I’m lucky, because home is STILL wherever I’m with you:
Photo by Scott Foust
thank you + an update
Tonight, out of the blue, my husband approached me and sweetly told me that I was a very good writer and that he didn't think I should shut down my blog.
After giving him my best what-in-the-world-are-you-talking-about face, I suddenly realized: he is as belated a blog reader as I am blog writer.
Oh, I said, smiling. You mean the post I wrote two months ago? That old thing?
And then I laughed, because clearly, we are a perfect match.
-
I just wanted to pop in and say thank you so much for the insightful, supportive thoughts on my previous post. After reading all the comments, the anxiety I felt about this blog was washed away. You gave me the permission I needed to finally feel okay about simply being a Sometimes Blogger. So, thank you!
I've realized that blogging and writing are two different things. I don't have to be whiz at the former in order to be great at the latter. I'm going to be good at what I'm good at, and then let the rest go.
I wanted to share something that Alfie said, because her comment really hit home:
you don't post everyday because its expected. you post when inspired. and each post is meaningful.
Isn't that perfect? Inspiration, not expectation. If my blog had a mission statement, that would be it.
I'm here, I'm staying, and I'm glad you're going to stay, too.
After giving him my best what-in-the-world-are-you-talking-about face, I suddenly realized: he is as belated a blog reader as I am blog writer.
Oh, I said, smiling. You mean the post I wrote two months ago? That old thing?
And then I laughed, because clearly, we are a perfect match.
-
I just wanted to pop in and say thank you so much for the insightful, supportive thoughts on my previous post. After reading all the comments, the anxiety I felt about this blog was washed away. You gave me the permission I needed to finally feel okay about simply being a Sometimes Blogger. So, thank you!
I've realized that blogging and writing are two different things. I don't have to be whiz at the former in order to be great at the latter. I'm going to be good at what I'm good at, and then let the rest go.
I wanted to share something that Alfie said, because her comment really hit home:
you don't post everyday because its expected. you post when inspired. and each post is meaningful.
Isn't that perfect? Inspiration, not expectation. If my blog had a mission statement, that would be it.
I'm here, I'm staying, and I'm glad you're going to stay, too.
and the world spins madly on
I let the day go by
I always say goodbye
I watch the stars from my window sill
The whole world is moving and I'm standing still
- the weepies
I've been thinking about this blog a lot lately, wondering if it is time to turn out the lights. I'm here so infrequently that I don't even know if anyone is following along anymore, and even if they are - what's a blog without a community of people listening and talking and sharing? As a blog author, I've failed pretty spectacularly in that department.
The main reason I'm not in this space as often as I would like is simple, but hard to admit: I'm a perfectionist, and more often than not, my unrealistic desire to be the best at everything I do prevents me from doing anything at all.
If I can't blog everyday, then I sit back and think that it's not even worth it to post occasionally.
If I can't plan out dinner meals a week in advance, we end up eating take-out because I already feel like I've failed.
If I can't clean the apartment from top to bottom, then I give up and let things get completely out of control.
It's a certain kind of terrible bondage, this paralyzing feeling of never being able to reach some crazy high standard that I've set. It's a standard that I would never hold to any of my friends, but for some reason think it's okay to impose on myself.
I would love to know if you struggle with this issue, too. I'd also love to know your thoughts on blogs with infrequent posts - do you stick around for the content or do you get tired of waiting and move on?
[Photos by me, taken earlier this year]
2011
"Oh, do not ask, 'What is it?' / Let us go and make our visit." - from The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Eliot
In 2011, I want to:
be more decisive,
trust my instincts,
believe in my eye + my voice,
shed insecurity,
stop worrying about what other people think,
accept my imperfection.
In a word... confidence.
[photos of me, taken by my husband, with diana]
last christmas
Last Christmas, he saw snow for the first time:
He was almost one year old, and his perfect, almond-shaped brown eyes cut right to my heart:
Like true desert-dwellers, we overdressed:
The snow diffused the sounds, and the lights:
And he (barely) tolerated the striped cap we made him wear. He ripped it off not long after this photo was snapped:
This year, we're staying home. Instead of a picturesque Midwest Christmas, we'll sit by the fire on my parent's back patio, eat tamales, menudo, salsa, flautas and leftover birthday cake, and enjoy the crisp night air. Someone will probably wear flip-flops to dinner, and my brother and I will strike a few ninja poses for the camera. We always do.
Thanks for being a part of my life and always leaving such encouraging and kind comments. I know most people are taking a blog break next week, but I'm hoping to keep my blogging momentum going (4 posts in this month so far! Must be a record for me) and power through the final chapter of Isaac's birth story.
Merry Christmas!
He was almost one year old, and his perfect, almond-shaped brown eyes cut right to my heart:
Like true desert-dwellers, we overdressed:
The snow diffused the sounds, and the lights:
And he (barely) tolerated the striped cap we made him wear. He ripped it off not long after this photo was snapped:
This year, we're staying home. Instead of a picturesque Midwest Christmas, we'll sit by the fire on my parent's back patio, eat tamales, menudo, salsa, flautas and leftover birthday cake, and enjoy the crisp night air. Someone will probably wear flip-flops to dinner, and my brother and I will strike a few ninja poses for the camera. We always do.
Thanks for being a part of my life and always leaving such encouraging and kind comments. I know most people are taking a blog break next week, but I'm hoping to keep my blogging momentum going (4 posts in this month so far! Must be a record for me) and power through the final chapter of Isaac's birth story.
Merry Christmas!
i've got my love to keep me warm
Today is my birthday. I've got two cute men by my side. What more could a girl ask for?
Tonight we're going out for Thai food, then coming back to our place for cake + ice cream + presents. It's the one day out of the year that everyone in my family comes over to our apartment. We're always squished and cramped and sitting on the floor, but I love it. It's going to be a great night!
[Photos by Scott Foust, taken December 2010]
Anatomy of the DIY Gift Wrap: Budget Edition
Is it just me, or do DIY crafts always seem to end up being more expensive than if you went and bought it pre-made at the store? I have such limited space in my home (my bath towels share a shelf with the tool set) that it's impossible for me to stockpile a useful stash of materials. As much as I'd like to, I really can't hold onto old sweaters in the hopes that one day I'll rip them up and use the fabric as decorative accent on gift wrap. Where would I keep them - in my crockpot? It's just not practical right now.
And let's not forget that all that pretty DIY takes a fair amount of time, which is not abundant in the life of a toddler mom/small business owner/wife/wannabe writer. It takes even more time when you are not naturally design-y (not a word, I know) as well as an indecisive perfectionist. Translation: I'm very good at wasting time on unimportant details because I don't know what I am doing.
So when I get the urge to do something homemade -- fairly frequently, thanks to all the amazing, creative bloggers out there -- I usually end up with a diminished bank account and a discouraged spirit.
I promised that I wouldn't do that to myself this Christmas, despite being completely taken by Summer's luxurious monochromatic gift wrap and Sally's more modern, gilded take and wishing I could create something similar.
I reached into the the closet, pulled out the old, gaudy, drugstore bargain-bin rolls of wrapping paper and forgot about it.
-
When we opened the three small boxes that store our Christmas decorations, out tumbled a few rolls of wide, shimmery gold metallic ribbon and some tiny, round, gold ornaments. They used to adorn my small, college-apartment Christmas tree, but have sat unused in the box since then.
It gave me a little idea. So I started scrounging deeper - in the Christmas boxes, in the kitchen, in my closet. Here's what I found:
White Yarn
Tiny Gold Ornaments
Wide Gold Ribbon
Skinny Gold + Silver Ribbon
Miscellaneous Buttons
Roll of White Paper
(FYI: The white paper is from my son's art easel that we bought at IKEA. It's the MALA paper, and I'm officially in love with it. Go get a roll. It's heavy and perfect for wrapping).
I decided to try to make some pretty packaging with those items, plus these things from the clearance aisle at Michaels & JoAnn Fabric:
Sheer Ivory Ribbon - .75 cents
1 Yard of Burlap - $3.00
Glitter Leaves - .49 cents
Glitter Gift Bag (to make tags)- $1.29
Total Cost: $5.53
Here's what I ended up with.
Not bad for under six bucks, if you don't mind me saying so. I'm glad I didn't let my need for perfection stop me from at least trying. It feels simple, but special. Isn't that what do-it-yourself is all about, anyway?
love in details
Years from now, I'll remember that sweet head of baby fine blonde hair. But I might forget the way the wind swept it up into a tiny golden tornado that day.
We have lots of photos of Isaac - an overwhelming number, thanks to the unholy trinity of photography, first-time parenting and digital cameras.
They're all special to me, but I have a soft spot for the details. Someday, when I'm old and he's grown - I know they will bring me a lot of joy. They already do.
signs
Dearest husband,
I bought you a card ages ago. I'm sure by now you think I just forgot to give it to you, considering that our anniversary was last month.
It's just a silly, throwaway card, with no flowery language or meaningful subtext. At the time it would have felt odd and insincere to give you something touchy-feely like that.
Because you and I - well, we're the stubborn ones. That old Achilles heel of ours. After six years of marriage, our struggles have become less noticeable and less frequent, but seemingly more potent. It's like we're pushing against opposite sides of an invisible door and wondering why we can't get in.
I know in my head that relationships ebb and flow, a decrease followed by increase. That's the law of nature and of love, but even so - it's hard to know what to do and how to act on an anniversary when there are undercurrents of tension and frustration.
So, I didn't give you the card because I simply didn't know what to say. Instead, I held on to it, hoping for some flash of inspiration or for something to nudge at my heart.
And then I got it. All these weeks later, a sign. A literal, honest-to-goodness sign, via a photo I snapped earlier this year.
As soon as I saw it, I felt a wave knock me over. It felt like regret, and a little like shame for forgetting one of the most important foundations of any good marriage.
Yield, Marisa. Let it go. Stop pushing. Wait. Give.
You, Aaron. Not me.
That's what I wish I would have said then. And it's what I'm happy to say now.
Happy (belated) Anniversary, my love.
Your always adoring wife,
M
I bought you a card ages ago. I'm sure by now you think I just forgot to give it to you, considering that our anniversary was last month.
It's just a silly, throwaway card, with no flowery language or meaningful subtext. At the time it would have felt odd and insincere to give you something touchy-feely like that.
Because you and I - well, we're the stubborn ones. That old Achilles heel of ours. After six years of marriage, our struggles have become less noticeable and less frequent, but seemingly more potent. It's like we're pushing against opposite sides of an invisible door and wondering why we can't get in.
I know in my head that relationships ebb and flow, a decrease followed by increase. That's the law of nature and of love, but even so - it's hard to know what to do and how to act on an anniversary when there are undercurrents of tension and frustration.
So, I didn't give you the card because I simply didn't know what to say. Instead, I held on to it, hoping for some flash of inspiration or for something to nudge at my heart.
And then I got it. All these weeks later, a sign. A literal, honest-to-goodness sign, via a photo I snapped earlier this year.
As soon as I saw it, I felt a wave knock me over. It felt like regret, and a little like shame for forgetting one of the most important foundations of any good marriage.
Yield, Marisa. Let it go. Stop pushing. Wait. Give.
You, Aaron. Not me.
That's what I wish I would have said then. And it's what I'm happy to say now.
Happy (belated) Anniversary, my love.
Your always adoring wife,
M
daily riches
(L) The late-afternoon light is meditative, gliding silently across the creased and rumpled blanket. I look into my bedroom often, just to see the glow. (R) The gilded edges and aqua cover brighten the mostly white room; empty pages beckon like an open road.
*
I've been feeling really down about our living space lately. It's a 900 sq. ft apartment with only two bedrooms, and between me, my husband, our rambunctious toddler AND the small business... well, cramped is not a strong enough word to describe how it feels here. Every day I am faced with clutter and stuff and displaced things, and every day I wish for space and order and simplicity instead.
I want to be content, but I find myself held down by frustration and disappointment.
I want to be better than that.
So, I've started a little project, inspired by the words of one of my favorite writers, Rainer Maria Rilke:
If your daily life seems poor, do not blame it; blame yourself that you are not poet enough to call forth its riches.
I think that the cure for discontentment is gratitude, so occasionally I'll be posting photos and words that celebrate the daily riches that I do have here in my 900 square feet. Think of it as -- a little modern poetry.
(Are you feeling discontent about something in your life? Join me if you'd like! Leave a comment - I'd love to follow your progress.)
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