I haven't published here in a while, though I have been writing all these months mostly in small snippets posted to Instagram or captured in notes on my phone. It's always tough to come back from a long writing absence, especially following a time when there was so much to say. I'm posting tonight a vignette from the evening Winslet was born back in March. A birth photo from the kindest soul, Patience Salgado, serves to jog my memory.
Winslet’s birth was for me a curious entanglement of dread and utter relief. It was a journey we made together with my mind half in and half out of my body. Surreal, calm. The context was disorienting. Contractions weren’t quitting. My cervix was dilating. There was nothing more they could do but remove the cerclage then wait and see. A magnesium drip was started to protect her tiny brain from bleeding, and the stitch that had gifted us six weeks—enough so she could have a chance to live at all—was cut and pulled from my body.
That was the scariest moment. I feared for what would come next and I hoped to my core that my cervix wouldn’t open up right there and she be born, too fast to feel grounded in the triumph of laboring her down and pushing her out. A warmth crawled through my body from the inside out as the magnesium took effect and I closed my eyes and pleaded please, at least give me that. Let me have the privilege of doing the work to bring her earthside.
I appreciate birth for it’s purpose known and unknown, for it’s raw intensity, the power shift, the love and tenderness, and for the pain. Oh the pain. To surrender to that depth and to lean in to ourselves, to feel it all, and to such a lovely end—the experience is wholly enchanting.
But this would be my second birth where our story's timing was all wrong.
Despite what appeared to be true, a piece of my mama heart remained to believe I could carry her longer. Was there not more I could do?
At 25 weeks there was so much more I needed to do for her. I wanted to keep her protected and the thought of letting her out of my body made me feel helpless and dark and yet I also wanted the pregnancy to end because everything about it had just been so hard. To release her would end bedrest, end my hospitalization, reconnect me to the daily lives of my other two children. The waiting for the next thing—come what may—had been emotionally exhausting and painful for all of us. Still, I wondered if I was I trying to hold her in, and if it even made a difference—maybe so. For weeks I had been holding on for her dear life.
I don’t remember if I reasonably said yes, or truthfully answered no, but in that moment I knew our course was set.
What would she look like? Would she live? Would she be damaged because life outside of me would be so unkind?
I wasn't ready to find out but I wasn't alone.
Despite what appeared to be true, a piece of my mama heart remained to believe I could carry her longer. Was there not more I could do?
My doula arrived and took hold of my arm confidently, firmly. She looked into my eyes and pulled me back into the moment to face the darkness. She asked me, truthteller: “Ok, but are you ready to let go of her?”—this when my body was leaving early labor and the pain was ramping up, contractions coming longer stronger and closer together. The tears came then because my baby wasn’t ready and so neither was I.
At 25 weeks there was so much more I needed to do for her. I wanted to keep her protected and the thought of letting her out of my body made me feel helpless and dark and yet I also wanted the pregnancy to end because everything about it had just been so hard. To release her would end bedrest, end my hospitalization, reconnect me to the daily lives of my other two children. The waiting for the next thing—come what may—had been emotionally exhausting and painful for all of us. Still, I wondered if I was I trying to hold her in, and if it even made a difference—maybe so. For weeks I had been holding on for her dear life.
I don’t remember if I reasonably said yes, or truthfully answered no, but in that moment I knew our course was set.
What would she look like? Would she live? Would she be damaged because life outside of me would be so unkind?
I wasn't ready to find out but I wasn't alone.