Hearts And Hands Services

My brother and sister in law gave me this poem for Christmas (so I don’t know author or anything, but it’s beautiful)

My Midwife

The first hands to touch me to break my first fall
The first hands to lovingly guide me forwards
Before any other, to touch my soft skin
The first helping hand brought me out from within

A hand never forceful, but there if I need it
Such delicate patience and love to preceed me
Lovingly keeping watch, as I first bloom
Calm, steady presence holds firm in the room

Keeping my mother, smoothing her through
Angelic and graceful, that’s just all you
Discreet yet so present whatever may be
Troubles or calm, I know you’ve got me

This time like no other, we’re given to you
In love, complete trust I know we’ll get through
For you are the light, the grace we can see
The strong, able presence in our hour of need

All my trust you have forever and more
All my love you’ll have far beyond
We are connected as only can be
A saviour, an angel, my midwife and me

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Tomorrow is Pregnancy Loss Remembrance Day.  It seems to always catch me off guard even though I know every year that it’s coming.

Every year, we have had more loss and more heartache, and this year has helped me see that things can be so awful you want to quit, but you keep pushing because it is something you want more than you thought possible.

We have been trying to get and stay pregnant for 3 1/2 years, and have had six losses.  Each loss is so different, so fresh in its own way, but I find myself thinking more and more about the hardest loss we have had to go through.

On August 5, 2010, we lost our son at 13 weeks 5 days.  Sure, medical lore and knowledge would suggest you couldn’t know the sex of your baby that early, but we knew.  It was more than a feeling.  There really isn’t a way to describe it.

The last year has been so hard, and since tomorrow is a day to remember, I’m going to focus on the one bright star following his birth.

Three days after he was born, my milk came in.  I woke up angry and sad, I really had no idea that this could happen.  I was only a couple days shy of 14 weeks!  I knew ladies that had their milk come in with 18+ week losses, but I had no idea that I would need to prepare for this.

I asked so many of my friends how I could get rid of it as fast as possible.  I didn’t want the reminder that  my body could nourish a baby but not grow a baby.  One of my very dear friends suggested that I pump and donate to someone that truly needs it.

I’m still so incredibly thankful that she did this.  Everyone else was giving me ways to kill my milk supply, but she stood out and asked if something better could come from this.

I started pumping, and it just felt right.  It took about two weeks to get my supply up, but for those two weeks, I was strapped to my pump every 3 hours (except at night) and pumped for an hour to hour and a half each time.  I am lucky that I have an amazing supply, even without pumping at night.  At my peak, I was pumping 45 ounces a day.

I have amazing friends that donated money for a hospital grade pump and washable nursing pads, and so many amazing companies that sent me items for free so I wouldn’t have to do more than I was able.  Even just thinking now of the kindness of so many people is astounding to me.

In two months that I pumped, I was able to store a little over 1000 ounces, and it all went to three families.  I chose not to donate to a milk bank, and went directly to families that needed milk.

Pumping was one of the hardest yet rewarding things I have ever done in my entire life.  If I could go back and choose to keep going, I would.  In the end, the two months was all I needed to keep my mind off of the loss, and I knew that I didn’t need to push myself anymore.

His birth affected me in so many ways, but I am so grateful to my friend that suggested I pump.  His birth is now no longer a purely sad event.  Every day I do wish he was alive and well, but the gift he gave me and the families that needed breastmilk is more than I can ever repay.

October 15th we remember.  I remember my babies, the babies of my friends, and all the babies that have gone on.  I remember the sadness and the tears, and the hopes and joy that they can bring.

Tomorrow night, at 7pm (no matter your time zone), consider lighting a candle for one hour to remember the precious babies born too soon.  Just one hour, and it means so very much to all of those that have babies not on this world.  Even for one hour, our babies are remembered, and that is something that means the world.

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I often hear women talking about themselves, especially mothers, and saying the words “fat”, “gut”, “muffin top”.  It makes me so sad.

One thing that has drawn me to helping women is how beautiful they are.  Short, tall, big, small.  They are all just so gorgeous.

And the women I love more than anything are mothers.  Whether they had their baby a day ago or they are a great-grandma to 15.  Their bodies are just aged to perfection.  They have the bodies I want.  The body that grew and nurtured multiple children.  The body that when you look at it looks saggy and tired, but in truth is just simply beautiful.

As women, we always compare ourselves to others instead of thinking about how we *feel*.  We see commercials and TV shows and covers of magazines and wonder what we are doing wrong.

When the truth is, what we are doing wrong is comparing our body to what we think the perfect body looks like.

My favorite woman’s body is the one that she is comfortable in.  I can’t even begin to describe how a woman glows when she is comfortable in her own skin.  With her wrinkled, sagged breasts, and her stomach that doesn’t really bounce back like when she was a teenager.  The body that grew a living being.  The body that nourished that being and helped it grow.  The body that taught and loved and raised another person.

We, as mothers, don’t give ourselves enough credit.  We see these magazine racks and the women on there with their new babies and perfect bodies and we measure ourselves and find ourselves lacking.

When in fact, the only difference is a trainer that charges $5000 an hour, and a professional with an air brush.

I see women that have just given birth to their child, and their stomach still looks pregnant, and they are tired, but they are at their most beautiful.  Our bodies were made to stretch and grow.  They were made to grow more beautiful with use.

Some of my favorite artwork is of big breasted, full bellied women.  Just like the cavemen used to pray to.  The Mother of all the Earth.

She wasn’t a skinny supermodel.  She wasn’t slim or trim.  She was a woman that loved with everything she had.  She was a woman that bore her body with pride at what she had created and nurtured.

She is the most beautiful of all.

(courtesy of google images)

In my eyes, she is beautiful.

We shouldn’t be comparing ourselves to others.  We shouldn’t be unhappy because the number on a scale isn’t what we wished we saw.

We need to learn to be comfortable in our own skin.  We need to learn to be happy with the body we have, the body that grew and nurtured our children.  We need to learn to love ourselves.

You are beautiful.  A number on a scale or a pants size doesn’t make the mother.  What makes a mother is the love she has for her children.  The love she has for herself.

Mothers are the most beautiful to me of all.

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I haven’t posted on here in a long time.  No posts I write feel right, so they sit in my drafts.  I just haven’t been very inspired lately.

Since August, I have wondered why I do the work I do.  I am surrounded by pregnant women, by births that seem very unlikely I will ever have.  And yet I can’t stop learning and loving and being around birth.

I always wondered what drew people to their calling and lifestyles.  And when I found mine, it all just clicked.  Since my fourth loss, I have wondered whether this is the right place for me.  If I would be able to keep going.

I have been having a hard time being happy for people I know that are pregnant, and have taken a bit of a step back from birth.  I stopped doula work, stopped blogging and learning about birth for a bit.  I wanted to get recentered and truly find out if this was for me.

I wanted to find out if I would be able be around pregnant women without hating myself.

And what I found out was eye opening.

We have five clients so far this year, with one more possibly on the way.  And I couldn’t be more excited!

I cannot wait to see their bellies, to see their labors and births.  I cannot wait to see their faces when they first hold their babies, to see their faces when they have that new baby.  I cannot wait to see their glow.

I always wondered what it took for a job to be your calling.  I think I found out what that means.

I think it means putting yourself last.  No matter your past or your future, it includes working toward what you want with a ferocity that cannot be stopped.

When I am working with pregnant women, it isn’t about me.  It’s like there is nothing in the world but them.

My losses and infertility don’t matter when I work with them.  Sometimes I don’t want to go, and want to not ache to work with pregnant women, but when I am with them, I am revitalized.  I am renewed.

For me, a calling is more than just a job.  My calling is birth, and my own past won’t change that.

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TRIGGER WARNING: THIS DEALS WITH THE NICU

Ever have one of those days that make you stop and wonder how you have made it through since a certain moment?  When one little thing triggers you and you end up doing nothing but reliving events that truly were your own fault that hurt someone you loved?

I rarely, if ever, think about the time Glade spent in the NICU.  I don’t like to think about her birth at all, if I can help it.  I don’t like to think about any of my births.  But, that NICU stay is always pushed to the very back of my mind, and whenever I even remotely think about it, I am up for hours crying.

When my friend had her baby, I went to visit her in the hospital that night and got off on the wrong floor.  The elevator doors opened and just as I remembered, there was the door to the NICU.  Everything was exactly the same.  The camera was pointed down, the door was closed, there are no windows inside to peek.  I didn’t see any of the equipmentor or the families or babies or nurses, and yet I felt like I couldn’t breathe.

I remember every detail.  The giant sink you had to wash and sanitize in.  Which room she was in.  How many wires, the monitors, the chair, the isolette.  The charts on the wall, the beeps of the room as they monitored her heart and lungs and temperature.  I even remember the curtains they had, and the color blankets she used.  I remember every detail of the nurses and the rooms, but I don’t remember much of how Glade looked or did or how I felt when I held her.

I am so ashamed of how I handled Glade’s NICU stay.  I was never there.  Any chance we got, we were out of that hospital.  The first week of Glade life, I barely even saw her.  I couldn’t stand watching them prick her.  I couldn’t stand to see her so lifeless because she didn’t have the oxygen to move around.  I couldn’t stand seeing the bruises on her body from the version and the cesarean.

So, I avoided it.  I was there for when I needed to pump every three hours (which was actually done in my room a floor above the NICU) and I saw her when I went and put the milk in the freezer.  I never stayed long.  I truly felt so useless.

I had never even heard of the word NICU until Glade was life-flighted.  I didn’t know they existed, and I truly didn’t know that my child would need one.

As I ran out of the building after seeing that door for the first time in over three years, I stood outside for twenty minutes because even just the smell of the hospital had me feeling dizzy.  I knew that it would affect me, but I had no idea it would be that bad.

She was in there for five days.  With how much oxygen she needed, and how her jaundice levels were, it was amazing she was able to leave that soon.  She was tiny, and she went home on oxygen, but she was able to go home for the first time at a week old.  I know so many people that spent so much longer in there.

My daughter is healthy and alive and thriving because of that NICU, so why is the memory of it so traumatic?  Why is something that should be a happy memory, something that leaves me shaking and terrified?

How do you deal with the anxiety of something that happened over three years ago, and didn’t realize that it was still this bad?  How do you deal with something that you have suppressed, but now realize that it scares you more than so many other things?

How do you stop the nightmares that will come from remembering?

I’m not ungrateful.  I truly am so glad for what they did for her.  I still am so impressed with her stay and how we were treated.  I still love her nurses and doctors.  I am so thankful that Glade is here and doesn’t have any issues.

Yet, how do I deal with the regret that my choices and my ignorance are the reason she ended up alone in a cold place being poked and prodded alone?  If I am able to get pregnant again, and if I end up delivering prematurely, how am I going to be okay if another one of my children needs to stay in the NICU?

Because of my choices and completely trusting instead of researching, my daughter took the brunt of all of it.

My daughter, so tiny and precious, was bruised for weeks, had oxygen and regular tests, and I don’t know how to be okay with it.

How do you get over a NICU stay?  Even a good one?

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***There are pictures of a placenta in this post, do not read if you don’t like them as much as I do ***

The midwife I work with and my friend had her baby this week, and I was planning on encapsulating her placenta for her .

After a day of an amazing nurse tracking down where it was, and then having to tell the nurse I picked it up from that I wasn’t going to clone babies with it, I finally got a giant red bag (that I could have fit in) that had a container with the placenta, which was in two zip lock bags inside this container.  They weren’t taking any chances with this “biohazard”.

The placenta is by far one of my very favorite organs.  It makes hormones, keeps a baby alive, and then comes out after birth and you don’t die.  I mean, how is that *not* exciting?!  Even my three year old was fascinated and helped me with everything I did!

So, I took it home and put it in pills for her, and here is a bit of a picture blog

The Placenta before I cleaned it off (though I had cut off the amniotic sac before I took this)

Print I did with blue and green paint (not the best, but I still like it!)

Cut up and ready to bake! To me, this just looks like steak haha

Cooked!!

Grinding it into powder (yes, that is Glade’s hand, she loved helping!)

Putting it into pills (she bought me a capsulator thing, which made it so I capsuled 145 pills in about 30 minutes!)

Huzzah!

And voila! 145 pills to ingest to help with baby blues, hormones, milk production, and so much more!

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Grief can do very strange things to a person.

A few weeks ago, I hated my hair, and on a whim, I cut it myself in the bathroom the second I got out of the shower.  I went on a cleaning spree in my house, and threw tons of things away, including the positive pregnancy tests I had gotten with Tyrion, which I now regret to my core.  I wanted to throw out every baby thing in my house, but calm voices were able to talk me out of it.

I haven’t been able to pick up a book about birth in weeks.  Even looking at them makes me sick inside.  I used to enjoy, no crave, reading them every day, and now I try not to look at the shelf they are on.

I’m angry or sad all the time.  I just can’t get over it.  I have lost my patience with Glade, and I don’t know how to get it back.

I set up my doula site again with my rates.  I even had a lady contact me.  I wrote back and haven’t heard from her since.

I always wanted to do so much.  I wanted to start prenatal yoga where I live so women could have the option.  I wanted to start a support group for loss, but someone beat me to it.  I wanted to take a breastfeeding course so I could help women around here having breastfeeding issues, but I don’t have the drive.

I did a belly cast, which was amazing, and it always refreshes me to do things with pregnant women and bellies, but once I was home and away from it, the drive to put out I made them vanished.  I get to encapsulate a placenta in the next few weeks, and clean up after a birth, and I am so excited for it, but not like I used to be.

I never thought I would be so completely changed by a loss.  None of my other miscarriages hit me as hard as this last one.  Maybe it is because they were never more than clots and cramps, and this one was a baby.  Maybe it is because of my milk coming in, and pumping for two months.  Maybe it is because I got a positive pregnancy test on Wednesday, and then on my blood test, I wasn’t pregnant.

Maybe my wiring just became faulty, and I won’t ever be able to find myself again.

I used to breathe pregnancy and birth.  A day didn’t go by when I wasn’t researching something or talking to someone about it.  Now, I only think about it if someone mentions it.

My mind doesn’t automatically go to birth anymore.  And I want it back, and don’t think I can get it.

How long does grief last?  A month?  A year?  A lifetime?

I want to be myself, to be the birth geek that I am.  I don’t want to think about my lost births and experiences.  I want to be okay with our decision to not have more children.  I want to be able to throw myself back into this work with the drive I had before.

And I have no idea how to get back there.

Grief does strange things to people.  It changes you.  Forever.

Maybe eventually I will get back in the groove.  Maybe when the nightmares and the hurt stops.  Or maybe I just need to build the drive back the way I did in the beginning.  Maybe I just need to try a little harder.

But for now, I am changed.

And that terrifies me.

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Today, I packed up my pump.  The bottles, the bags, the tubes.  Everything.

Since I got back from my mom’s house about two and a half weeks ago, I got lazy.  I cut down from 4-5 pumping sessions a day to just one.  I was still getting 8-10 ounces in that one session, and knew that if I really wanted to, I could get my supply back.  I knew I didn’t want to stop then, that I would know the right moment.  So I kept pumping every morning.

I don’t know what happened.  Pumping wasn’t what it used to be for me.  I had already donated to two families, and knew that I would love to donate more, but I just didn’t have the drive to do it.  I didn’t have the willpower to actually build my supply back up.

I pumped in the morning, and Glade would nurse in the afternoon.

Friday was the last day that Glade nursed.

It feels so long ago.

I told myself I would let her pick when to stop.  I told myself that it would probably be soon because she is three, and that is around the time kids naturally wean themselves.

I just didn’t expect it to really happen.

We had this new bond and I loved it, and now it is gone.

Saturday I pumped for the last time.

I haven’t wanted to say anything.  I still have reviews to write on the things that were donated to me.  I wanted this post to come so much later than it is.

I didn’t want to let people down.

Everyone says I am doing this great thing, that I am amazing.  I don’t feel that way.  I feel like I am taking all of their gifts and all the support people gave me and throwing it back in their face.  I see this pump, and all the things I was given, and it makes me hurt that I couldn’t do this longer.  So many incredible people were there to help me out, and I’m quitting.

I know that I have done more than others have.  I know that I didn’t have to do this to begin with.  I know all this.  But to me, I know I should want to keep going.  I know that I should want to donate more milk.  I know of at least 6 babies right now that need milk so badly.

And I’m quitting.  I am giving up.  I am depriving these precious babies of nutrition for my own selfish reasons.

It shouldn’t be this way.  I thought that when I stopped pumping it would be because I was ready.  I thought I would be happy with the decision.  I thought it would be easy.

But this post is the hardest post I have ever had to write.  Including the post I wrote about my son or the post I wrote about my miscarriages.

I don’t want to let anyone down.

Thank you all so much for being there for me.  For helping me when I had troubles pumping.  Thank you to the one person who asked if I could pump and donate my milk instead of letting it dry up.

I wouldn’t trade the last two months of pumping for anything, but I can’t keep doing it.

Holding that little baby boy on Friday made me realize that my breasts want to feed my baby.  They ache to be nuzzled and suckled like a newborn feeds.  They (and I) don’t want the hard plastic of a pump.

I am so sorry if I let anyone down.  I am so sorry if you think I am amazing.  I’m not.  Not even a little.

Thank you for helping me.  I think I needed the last two months, the pumping most of all, to help me realize where I needed to be in my grief.  I think I needed that more than I could ever say.

And for now, the last two months have been enough.

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