on letting go; a birth story of sorts
I’ve never really thought of myself as a maternal person. One thing I worried about before having Violet was whether that switch would flip in time—or would she be a victim of an awkward mother, fumbling around trying to navigate foreign territory with every gesture seeming artificial or disingenuous. But then she was born and I realized that motherhood was a balancing act between complete confidence and utter confusion; in your gut you know what to do, but each action is accompanied with self-doubt. When I became pregnant with Remy, I was sure that things would be easier…I mean, I’ve done this before, right? There would be fewer surprises. I would have more confidence, more control.
Everything was to be controlled from the very start. I was to have a c-section. I knew exactly what day he would come, what time they would make the incision, which doctors would be present, what kind of medications I would take, and what kind of recovery was in store. I was in control.
And then I wasn’t.
They took Remy out. He was beautiful and big and perfect in every way. They carried him to the other room to do their checks, and Nathan accompanied him to have some skin to skin time.
And suddenly I felt the worst pain. A deep, sharp, gnawing in my chest. I searched for the anesthesiologist who stood next to me the entire time and tried to articulate that something was wrong, but I found I couldn’t even get the words out. It was like the oxygen was being drained from my body at a dangerously quick pace. She luckily noticed the discomfort on my face and took a look at the IVs in my hand.
My hand.
My arm, my neck. A huge red rash was forming and traveling toward my chest. She quickly asked me to remind her of my allergies. What?! Penicillin.
“Oh my god. There must be a crossover reaction,” she said. Just then my throat was beginning to close.
The term is anaphylactic shock. I first heard that phrase on Grey’s Anatomy years ago and thought, geez that would suck. Mostly because you can die. But also because to not die they have to stick a huge needle straight into your chest.
Which is what they did.
My heart rate soared. I heard the beeping from the monitor and tried to regulate my breathing but my heart felt as if it was trying to crawl out of my chest.
Just then about five more doctors rushed in. There was commotion. What was happening? I knew that it should only take about ten minutes to sew everything up after a c-section but it seemed to be taking so much longer. Turns out my uterus wasn’t contracting like it should, so they had to manually contract it. For forty-five minutes. Needless to say, I was losing a lot of blood…2 liters to be exact (you have a total of 5 liters in your whole body). I felt dizzy. I felt nauseated. I vomited.
And then when I thought things could not get any worse, I started to feel my toes. Sprawled out, still “open” on the operating table, my toes began to wiggle. I indicated this to my anesthesiologist who quickly deemed it to be impossible. I wiggled them again for her and she screamed, “Vous avez dix minutes! You have ten minutes!” The surgical team started to rush around the O.R. frantically. I thought maybe this was it. I’m going to die and I didn’t even get to hold my baby.
But I didn’t die. And I got to hold my baby soon after.
And I left the hospital with my need for control resurrected with a vengeance. Perhaps it was naïve to think I could control the birth, but now that I was at home things would click. I’ve got this.
And then I didn’t. Remy was losing weight too quickly. The visiting midwife was discouraging. Remy wouldn’t breastfeed and he continued to lose weight. I pumped and bottle-fed around the clock. The midwife told me my milk was “insufficient” and told me to switch to formula. I cried. A lot.
I took Remy to a lactation consultant. I took him to an osteopath. I took him to the dentist. I spent hours on the phone with La Leche League consultants, and I joined a breastfeeding support group that told me that using a bottle was one of the worst things I could ever do as a mother. I walked around with guilt. I couldn’t help but feel shame. I was a failure. I’ve failed my son. What kind of life was this? Feeling chained to a breast pump, sterilizing bottles, packing thermoses of hot water, cooling packs, and risking engorgement if I stay out longer than my “window” would allow. I wasn’t in control.
It took some time (over three months to be exact) for me to come to terms with my present reality. It took time for me to look at my life and, for the first time in a long time, praise the fact that I am not in control. Perhaps things are messy and haven’t worked out the way I’ve planned…but who is to say that my plans are the best plans?
And so I’ve learned to let go. To let go of unrealistic expectations. To let go of unjustified guilt. To let go of grudges and jealousy and stop comparing myself or my situation to others. And I’ve learned to have grace for myself.
Grace upon grace.
Because there’s so much freedom in grace and in letting go.
