Chapter Four: The Birthplace of a Miracle
Dancing in the Duality of Truth
“One should lie empty, open, choiceless as a beach—waiting for a gift from the sea.”
~Anne Morrow Lindbergh
“…it is as though with each passing day and each stride he makes, a bit of the pent up worry and tension I have carried begins to fade. Catherine is due home from school soon and I cannot wait to see what he comes up with to push her buttons tonight. I never thought I would say that....it's funny how your perspective can shift.”
I remember composing these words on a computer while sitting at my desk on a Friday afternoon. The sun was shining, and the first warmth of springtime filled the air in the way optimism permeated my words. My entry on “Perspective” that concluded Chapter Three was the first I would compose without William on my lap, and I hit publish just before heading out to dinner to celebrate William’s renewed mobility and independence.
As we drove to the restaurant—together again as a family, I realized we were re-entering the world that had turned on as usual while we slipped beneath the surface for the month William was in and out of intensive care. I was grateful for the three nights we’d been home, but something about the drive brought a sense of normalcy I thought would never return.
With this deep exhale, I realized just how hungry I was—in a way I hadn’t been in a long time, and I was delighted by the sight of a menu placed on the table before me. But as I pulled the chair out from the table, I felt a pop in my womb and a rush of warmth as my water broke, bursting my bubble before I could even sit down.
I stood in the restaurant staring at my husband in disbelief as the scene we were experiencing seemed to transform like a movie set. My newfound bliss faded quickly as my doctor’s voice on the phone insisted that we needed to skip dinner and hurry to the hospital, “because the third baby always comes flying out.”
“Go for a really long walk” is the next thing I would hear him say after rushing to Labor and Delivery only to discover that I was a “fingertip” dilated. “I’m hungry” was all I could muster after receiving the news that active labor was much further off than predicted, and my doctor gave us directions to the nearby restaurant he “did not” tell us to eat at, because birth in a modern hospital is somehow safer on an empty stomach.
Sitting across from Eddie on a sudden date at a late night diner was a familiar scene reminiscent of when we’d first met in New York City and discussed our vision of a life together. Across the time and space of marriage, two kids, two miscarriages, William’s accident, and a third baby on the way with a concerning birth defect, I could recognize the growing stability in our partnership.
No, nothing was as we’d expected it would be, but somehow as familiar as a veggie omelette with Swiss cheese and hash browns, well done.
For hours, I lapped the hospital, as determined to stir up labor as I had once been to cross the finish line of a marathon. I ran 26.2 mile race in 2009 as a new mom to escape the postpartum fog that haunted me, and paced the corridors of a hospital in 2013 with the intention of avoiding another cesarean birth—but what was I moving so fast and furiously away from?
It’s a loaded and very rational question I would couch with a concrete argument against the surgical delivery—a longer hospital stay and harder recovery was not ideal when you considered my baby on the way needed surgery, and I had two children at home recovering from trauma. But as my legs tired and another minute dissolved in between my will and the mutually agreed upon induction deadline, I re-visited an old familiar lesson about the business of being born and all the maternal worth I tied up in it.
“You should never have your children in the kitchen when you cook” the social worker’s voice echoed in my mind—bringing to life a not-so-distant scene in the burn unit where she critiqued my parental values as the nurses worked to put a feeding tube up William’s noes and down his esophagus. Her judgment was everything I tried so valiantly to out run, but it haunted me with all the guilt and shame I felt while hearing William scream from across the hall as I endured her scrutiny.
The bag of artificial ingredients and discomfort it created in my child were, in a nutshell, everything the age of gentle natural parenting insisted were toxic—but in that moment, it was everything necessary to sustain him. Likewise, the home-cooked values with which I nourished my family were the root of my worth, and simultaneous lynchpin of a case that framed me as a “bad mom” who failed to keep her child from harm.
Could a second vaginal birth after cesarean I hoped would be unmedicated redeem me from her judgment and restore my shattered expectations? What is a good mom? I contemplated while slowing to an exhausted waddle as the clock struck midnight, and I signed the consent for induction.
Not long after, the pain began to build as the Pitocin flowed through my body. I could feel the artificially stimulated contractions pulling with an increasing and almost predictable amount of pressure that was different compared to the spontaneous waves that rocked my previous labor with William. As the night faded into day, my body began to wake up to what it was being asked to do, because a sense of urgency was growing from within that seemed to push beyond the synthetic rhythm.
It’s said that a bear will wake from hibernation to defend themselves and cubs from danger, and I wonder if she too would roar with rage over the disturbance. Regardless, it was a very human scream that shattered my heroic composure, and I leaned over, reaching for the support of the bed. My movement was limited by the wires pumping drugs and fluid through my veins and the fetal monitor tracking the baby’s heart rate. The contractions were now so extreme and violent, the band kept slipping, but I became too distracted by pain management to hold it in place. As soon as I let go, the baby’s heart beat stopped pulsing notes of certainty into the room, but the nurse came running in, and that’s when I felt her hand pressing down on the small of my back.
I’m still not certain if I was comforted by this physical pressure or her presence, but she began to move with me through the moments of intensity, confidently pushing me toward all I’d been seeking to avoid.
Yes, the only way to the other side of labor is through it, and her compassion was showing me that it didn’t matter how, but simply that I did—move through it.
“This too shall pass” I silently changed while groaning until each contraction released. Each time the nurse pulled back with me—waiting and silent. That’s when I would open my eyes and stare at the cherry blossom outside my window. I might have only noticed it in contrast to the austerity of the burn unit where there was not a flower in sight, but I savored the blooms blowing in the breeze, and took these flecks of pink goodness with me down into the depths, as I tumbled deeper and farther—fully immersed in the darkness that served as a gateway to new life.
We are conditioned to spend a great deal of our energy running from negativity and its cold dark shadow. But what happens if we choose to remain where we land and grow where we are planted, like a cherry blossom indigenous to Japan that can thrive outside a hospital in the suburbs of Long Island?
To this day, I cannot see a pink blossom without remembering this experience, where the beauty of nature revealed itself as a key ingredient of my resilience—if only I’m willing to open my eyes and behold it. And while there is a long list of lessons I derive from the blog that made me a storyteller, the birthplace of this miracle dances in the duality of truth about a crisis I wrote beautiful:
“This is bad I cannot do this alone” I said to my friends in the email that changed my life, “but there is good within my midst, beginning with each of you.”
While waiting for hope to arrive, I would have no choice but to remain in the story with my feet in the fire of transformation until I rose like a mythical phoenix, one in the same with the serpent that sheds her skin, or the caterpillar that cocoons before emerging a butterfly.
Yes, I can whittle my story down into words that collapse the span of time into succinct sentences that are as predictable as a synthetic drug, but the reality of my transformation was as wild, unpredictable, and long as each one of my five labors—because not one of my five children ever came flying out.
Some lessons are harder earned than others, but patience is always required as we align with the rhythm of the soul.
We might cradle reality with a framework of support and measurement of certainty, but wholeness requires a delicate dance between determination and surrender. Somewhere in that process, I’ve noticed how words like “always” and “never” have been the Achilles’ heel of any expert I once held on a pedestal alongside my great expectations of being a perfect mom.
“I’m here!” announced the anesthesiologist as he slid into my room with an alarming amount of arrogance. “I didn’t ask for you” I quipped, with a tone I hoped would convey my irritation about the intrusion. “Oh you are one of those natural childbirth heros” he said, mocking my denial of his magic potion and a pain-free birth. I shot back with the statistics of failed pain management in my first two birth experiences, because I was the rare case where the giant-sized needle was hard to administer in my back and then never worked properly anyway.
“I’d rather be free to move and in pain than immobile with hotspots” I said, before he shrugged and walked out the door while shouting over his shoulder, “You will ask for me, it’s just a matter of time.”
Time. It’s a hard concept to nail down, but at some point, I stopped waiting for time to bring the certainty of a finish line or medal and have accepted its gift of wisdom and perspective. Now a mother of five, I see how this birth experience falls into the center point of my journey, where my third born became my “middle middle” child whose labor and delivery seems to anchor the neutrality we cannot parse if we are to stand in our most authentic power.
No, it matters not how we give birth to or feed our children, but if we see them for who they are and what they need, which in any moment is love, we might be just enough.
“Get me the epidural!” I shouted to Eddie after 15 hours of Pitocin inspired a white flag of surrender. Ever the obedient soldier in battle, he responded as I had instructed over the last meal with, “No, you do NOT want an epidural. Stay strong, you are almost…”
Before finishing the words I asked him to say, he ducked as the bedpan I’d vomited my omelette into came flying across the room with a slew of profanities.
Not long after, the anesthesiologist strutted back into the room like a peacock with his feathers on full display, “I told you so” he boasted before asking, “Are you sure you can hold still?” when he realized I was deep in the throes of labor. I nodded with an eager confidence he met with the reassurance of his expertise, promising the procedure would be quick and easy, the pain relief on its way.
I was gripping the nurse’s shoulders, unable to move through the searing pain as his first attempt failed. Physically frozen as the next contraction wracked my body, I spoke the pain I felt into a fully formed sentence and threw it at him as a double-edged sword, because, “Looks like you aren’t so perfect after all” cut both ways.
Eddie would later point out that it was borderline insane to banter with a doctor inserting a needle into my back, but speaking this half of the truth is what kept me still through his second attempt. The third time was a charm and brought the relief he promised and the stillness of what felt like a stalemate with no winner.
As the pain subsided, I broke the silence that settled in the room with, “Thanks, but I told you so.” Then I curled up in a fetal position to stare out the window at my tree for all of eternity—or twenty minutes, before pushing a miracle baby from the darkness of my womb into the light of life.
Content Guide to Chapter Four: The Birthplace of a Miracle
April 19, 2013: Baby on the Way!
April 20, 2013: Who said the third baby comes flying out???
April 22, 2013: Small Miracles Happen Every Day
April 23, 2013: Lesson from a 2 Year Old
How This Book Works
April 19, 2013: Baby on the Way!
Looking forward to starting off our first calm and quiet weekend at home, we decided to take the kids for dinner. Somewhere between the parking lot and ordering food, my water broke and back in the car we went without eating to head home.
Because my contractions were around 11 minutes apart and not much more painful than they have been since 33 weeks, I felt I had time so I got my stuff together and took time to snuggle with both kids. Catherine had a thousand questions about what was happening so she could compare my experience to what her book, "Baby on the Way" says. She thought it was pretty cool that I had belly squeezes and my water broke just like the mommy in the book. She said goodbye and told me she can't wait to meet her new baby brother.
William was in a chipper mood, bouncing around, and when his grandparents arrived was easily distracted. I have not left his side for three weeks and two days. Literally, we have been together 24/7 so I have been extremely anxious about leaving him to deliver. When he was happy and distracted I was planning to sneak out of the house so I found what I thought was an unassuming opportunity to give him a huge kiss and he said, "Bye Mommy!"
And just like that...as if he knew he had to let me go....he went about watching Shrek with his grandparents and I was able to leave the house calm and worry free about my two littles at home.
Currently, I am on the fetal monitor at Winthrop University Hospital feeling pretty calm considering I am in labor. I suppose it is that perspective thing I mentioned earlier. The only thing I am kicking myself about is not eating anything since our dinner was interrupted. I have eaten nothing since 12:00pm so I am starving and while I was initially told I can eat or drink nothing (great for energy to push out a baby) I was just told by my doc that in a few minutes I can go for a walk and if I happen to eat a little something along the way then that's ok.., I just can't tell anybody :) I think I have a good doctor!!!!
So with that being said, I am back at a hospital. I had three glorious nights at home to recover from William's ordeal which was a blessing for all of us. Hopefully sooner rather than later and with as little pain as possible I will be holding my new baby boy!
April 20, 2013: Who said the third comes flying out???
.....because I hate them. Yup no baby yet. I walked and walked and eventually had to agree to start pitocin at 4 am. It is now 7:32am...a bit more than 12 hours since my water broke and while I am very uncomfortable, I am still at the cusp of active labor. I was not keen on pitocin as with Catherine the end result was a section. William was a VBAC which gives me hope but he progressed much faster than this!
The report from home is that both kids slept through the night like angels. Thank goodness but really!? I have been walking and contracting all night. Fun times.
While things are slow to progress I am hoping that it kicks in real fast and that I get to meet this baby who has now decided to be stubborn. Mamma is very tired, hungry and grumpy…..
April 20, 2013: Henry Edward Assad
Born today, April 20th, at 2:26pm:
7 lbs 11 oz, 20 inches long
As soon as Henry was born, he was put on my chest and not long after he peed which is a very very good sign. Because he had a normal urine output, he is with me in my room and treated as a normal healthy baby and has already nursed four times.
Tomorrow they will do some testing to look at his ureters and kidneys but for tonight we will rest well knowing he is finally here, healthy and of course looks nothing like his Mom!
April 22, 2013: Small Miracles Happen Everyday
We are home! All of us....together now as a family of five...well...six including Charlie, the beagle, who apparently missed me as much as the kids because he has his head on my lap!
Henry went for his sonogram today and while in utero his ureters were bigger than the doctors and sonogram technicians had ever seen and his kidneys were taking on fluid, there were literally no abnormal findings. I was with him when they did the sono and kept saying, "are you sure? Check again..."
Let's just say I was hoping for good news...but this is amazing news compared to what I was told time and time again by doctors that I would be facing. While we aren't out of the woods just yet....babies tend to be dehydrated when they are firstborn, so things could show up in the next few weeks, for now there is no surgery and no intervention. Henry is home with us as the normal, sweet and healthy little boy he appears to be.
More updates and details to come...just wanted to let you all know we are all home, happy and healthy. I believe in the power of prayer. Somehow it had a hand in this. Thank you all for your love and support. xoxo
April 23, 2013: Lesson from a 2 Year old
For so long I worried...William was always very attached to me so I was convinced that when the baby came he would have a difficult transition. Then his accident happened which made us inseparable to the point where I couldn't be 5 feet away from him let alone in another room. This of course was always heightened when he was uncomfortable or in pain, and while he was getting better each day I was tortured about leaving him to have the baby
After my water broke and I settled the kids into the house and William said goodbye to me as though it was no big deal - as he would have before this whole ordeal began, I was in awe. It was as though he knew that he needed to give me space. He knew that it was time for me to go and focus on bringing his brother into the world.
And so it seems that he continues to amaze me with his understanding. He has been nothing less than excited about his new baby brother who he calls "Hengwy." He loves to kiss his head, touch his toes and he thinks all the noises he makes are "very funny." While I expected him to be jealous and territorial, he instead is happy to find a snuggle spot around Henry when he is nursing and the three of us hang out as we have been for the past month—only Henry is real to us now and not just a stranger in my belly.
Henry is a very sweet and quiet boy. From the moment he was born, I was worried that he wasn't crying loud enough. Even when he is hungry or needs a diaper change, his cues are much more tempered than I remember of Catherine and William as infants. Given the boisterous personalities of his older siblings, I suspect that Henry will be the more cerebral, thoughtful and quiet one of the bunch but who knows, it's kind of early to tell...and nonetheless fun to guess.
It certainly is busy in my house and there are times when I'll admit it is overwhelming...a 4 year old who needs the attention she hasn't had from me in over a month now, a 2 year old who has been through a traumatic event and is still healing, an infant, and then there is Mom who has entered this all sleep deprived and is having a hard time catching up co sleeping with a toddler and infant. Still, this all seems manageable given what we went through with William. Nothing is better than having my family all in the house together and healthy. While I would like to say that everything happens for a reason, I cannot think of a way to justify the pain that I had to watch my child go through. Still, I suppose I can try and find the good in the situation and that most certainly is my ability to savor and appreciate the present moment for as chaotic as it seems I know I will never have this time back again: Catherine suddenly a big girl who insisted this morning that breakfast had to wait because she needed to fold her baby doll's clothes, William, the goofball, who thought it was really funny to eat dinner with his hands over his eyes while I fed him and Henry who is so tiny and perfect and delicious with his newborn smell. It has taken three kids and a rough month for me to learn the art of focusing on the present. Now as I kiss Henry's full head of dark hair, I remember doing the same with his brother and sister and while I always cherished the infant phase I have regrets of wanting it to go faster because I was so tired and overwhelmed. This time I am more tired and more overwhelmed but it can drag on because for today my whole family is happy and healthy.
I realize from the way William has reacted to Henry's homecoming that I was afraid of being able to love and care for another child. I felt that in loving and nurturing Henry I was taking away from the love that I needed to give to William and Catherine. Somehow when you have another child, your heart grows. At least mine feels as though it has swelled and I am able to love my children more than I ever have. Maybe this has more to do with seeing my family through a traumatic event followed by a 19 hour labor - somewhere in there I realized my capacity to cope, endure and love was more than I ever knew it was. Regardless, it has been William's reaction to Henry that has pieced it all together for me and with that I will sign off and sneak back into bed with my boys.
How This Book Works
To read Blessings in a Burn Unit from the beginning, you might want to go back and read the front matter and first three chapters, or you can read forward to chapter five and the afterward, linked here:
Prologue: On Resilience & Motherhood
Introduction: Perspective and the Power of Narrative
Chapter One: The Art of Paradox
Chapter Two: A Space Between
Chapter Three: The Science of Happiness
Chapter Five: The Artistry of Faith
Afterward: A Note on Love and Miracles
You can also read on about faith and flourishing here, or head over to The Magdalene Thread for essays and conversations on heart-based spirituality and extraordinary faith.
