Lydia's Birth Story: Part Two

I wasn't quite the calm, collected and in control mom I'd imagined I'd be in the months leading up to the birth of my third child. Life had been an unforgiving ocean, and though each wave had taught me a priceless lesson, I was also in need of a giant breath. I had grown leaps and bounds, true, but I was exhausted. 

In spite of this, the whole family was thrilled at the prospect of another girl joining us. It was right, and thanks to my experience with James' birth, my relationship with childbirth had transformed. I was excited for our baby girl to be born, but I also knew it wasn't going to be easy. I needed to be ready.

I trained my body and my mind, but the thing keeping me from feeling ready was deeper than that. 

There was the pressure. I'd had an unmedicated birth before. I couldn't NOT do it this time.

And the dreaded, ever present reality of: What if something went wrong? 

Lastly, there was the fear that I was destined to fail. After all, victory comes from strength, right? And my strength was gone. 

36 weeks came, but I wasn't dilated. And the contractions I usually had nonstop by that point never started, leaving me unsure of what to expect.

My mom came into town, and we waited, though not very patiently. We distracted ourselves by installing the last of the baseboards in our home (can you say nesting?).

My first two children were born on a Sunday. My sister's birthday was on the upcoming Sunday. It was the perfect day. But when my labor didn't start, I bore my testimony in church, sharing that I trusted God. And I did trust Him, perhaps more than I ever had. It was myself I wasn't certain I could count on. Little me, so totally human, how could I trust that I'd have the answers when the tests of life came knocking?

Monday morning my water broke. Not a gush like with Emma. No. A trickle. But Nate and I headed to the hospital even though I wasn't having any contractions.

I figured they'd start by the time we got to the hospital.

I was 38 weeks pregnant, which was full term. They had to start.

But they didn't.

My doctor came in. My water had broken. The baby had to come today. Pitocin, she said. 

My heart nearly caved in. This wasn't the plan. No, I don't want it. 

Four hours. That's all the time they'd give me to get labor going on my own. 

My heart was set on having another unmedicated birth. I'd spent months preparing. So I trusted myself enough to be willing to try. I had four hours to remove whatever mental hurdle was blocking my labor, keeping me from my baby girl. 

The nurse came in. She was from the East Coast. She turned off the lights and whispered, They don't trust birth here. It's okay. You have each other. 

Nate smiled at me. Held me. Believed in me.

Oxytocin. The love hormone. The nurse had it tattooed on her arm. A labor and delivery nurse marked by the thing truly responsible for birthing babies. Snuggle each other, she said. The best way to get babies out is how you got them in. 

We laughed. Sheepish. But Nate turned on a song. Swayed with me around the hospital room. Wiped my tears as they fell.

Baby, I'm dancing in the dark

With you between my arms

Barefoot on the grass

Listening to our favorite song

When you said you looked a mess

I whispered underneath my breath

But you heard it,

Darling, you look perfect 

He loved me. I finally accepted that. It had always been hard for me, believing I could be loved. It was a weakness that had caused me much needless grief, but in spite of it, I was never alone. None of us are ever far from the Savior's care. He'd been my survival. And He was there with me in that hospital room.

I knew He loved me. I could feel it fueling me, forcing tears down my cheeks as everything in me tried to deny it. But it was too strong. Undeniable.

You are loved.

That love was the beginning of breaking down my barriers, but I also needed light. Truth. 

My baby girl. Why can't I reach you? 

The nurse mentioned working through my fears. It's a mental battle. So I prayed. Which fear was holding me back? There were so many.

I'm not enough.

I took a deep breath. I held the fear up to the light. Maybe. Maybe I'm not enough. But I don't have to be.

I breathed out, accepting that I might need help. Maybe I would need the pitocin. Maybe that's okay.

I felt a burden slide from my shoulders. 

It's okay. It doesn't have to go the way I planned. 

And then I was reminded of what I already knew. Surrender. That's where the true power lies.

So I gave it up to God.

I started to hope. It was small, but it was there, soothing the ache inside me and untangling the tension of my muscles.

I had a few contractions. I'd worked so hard for them, but they told me I wasn't in labor.

Trust yourself. 

A truth from God. But so hard. Seemingly impossible.

Trust yourself. You know.

It didn't matter if they believed. I needed to trust the truths my soul sought to reveal.

Nate continued to sway with me. He hummed the words to the song Perfect. It was ironic. For so long perfection had been my idol. Not anymore.

We are still kids but we're so in love

Fighting against all odds

I know we'll be alright this time

Darling, just hold my hand

Be my girl, I'll be your man

I see my future in your eyes

For a time the contractions were consistent. Four minutes apart. Strong. Real. I knew I was in labor. 

I wanted to use the bath. It'll only slow your progress, the nurse said. We have to wait for real labor to begin. 

I was crushed. Doubt crept back in. Time was closing in fast.

My mom dropped by with James. We chatted. Smiled. Laughed. Then my doctor came in. She didn't want to check if I'd progressed, said it wasn't good for the baby. We'll give you a little more time. 

I was standing up as I was talking with her. I had a contraction that took my breath away. It was real. She couldn't see it.

They left. Nate never lost faith. He kept smiling, kept cheering me on. Trusted me. 

The contractions picked up. I rocked on the birth ball. Nate rubbed my back. I listened to my hypnobirthing track. This was happening. I was focused. I knew.

Trust yourself.

The doctor had wanted the contractions to be consistent. She had needed proof. Now she was nowhere to be found as they came one after the other, their intensity multiplying in minutes. 

With James' birth there had been little pain. But my water hadn't broken. It had cushioned the contractions. It had eased the pain. Not this time. This time I felt it. It was so close, but not threatening. I knew that suffering came with resistance. So I held to the pain instead, let it take me on a journey. 

It was surreal, the stretching sensation, the way each contraction opened me up, making room for my baby girl to come into the world. I marveled at it, this beautiful experience God had given me. I wanted to be here, to not miss a moment of the miracle. 

I breathed, focused, seeing my baby girl in my mind's eye. Fear couldn't remain when I thought of my love for her. She still didn't have a name, but it didn't matter. I knew her already. Our souls had resided beside each other for nine months, and I knew she was cheering for me. 

I stopped caring that things hadn't begun the way I'd planned. My pride was gone, but I had gained so much more.

You are enough.

Another truth from God. One I devoured as I crept up to the forboding wall of what seemed impossible. I began to tremble as my body temperature dropped. Nate cranked up the heat of our still dark haven. We knew what this meant. This was transition. We we're nearing the end, but first I had to walk through the fire.

Nate held my hand, watching as I observed rather than resisted the fierce contractions that should've brought tears to my eyes. 

We were alone, just the three of us, but it was as it should be. The nurse had gone on lunch. The doctor was back at her office. The monitor beeped with the incessant storm of contractions that tumbled forth. The proof they had asked for, but they would be too late to witness it for themselves.

Someone came in. The resident doctor. I knew she was speaking, but I was somewhere else, braving the beauty of the end. This was what it was like to walk right up to the edge of the impossible, to stroke it with curious fingertips, knowing it was only ever impossible because the world had been whispering it for longer than you'd been able to hear. Yes, this was all-consuming, almost more than could be borne, but it was also essential - it had to be experienced. Needed to be known. Longed to illuminate my mind with the learning that could not be gotten any other way.

She's coming. 

The resident said something about wanting to check my progress. Nate urged her to listen to me, though my voice was barely audible.

She's here. Call the doctor. 

The calm smile remained plastered on her face. Your doctor asked me to check you.

My body was already begging to push, and I knew I wouldn't be able to hold it back once it began. James had been out in three persuasive pushes. I was out of time.

Nate knew. He lifted me onto the bed as an endless contraction roared. It was almost over, that much I was certain of, but the vulnerability raged. There was no trust there, no tethering between this resident and I to comfort me. She announced what I already knew. You're 10 cm plus one! 

And then my body took over, startling all in the room with it's efficiency. The resident begged me not to push. I would've laughed if I hadn't been consumed by the need of the moment. I wasn't pushing. My body was, and it could not be stopped.

Help me, I pleaded, knowing I was in confounded hands.

It had only been an hour. My doctor had left an hour ago. She hadn't believed I was in labor. But I had known. Now the baby was coming, and they were scrambling. Unready. Disbelieving.

The next seconds were overwhelm. There was pressure, pleading, and the power of the push. There was me and my body, and a blur of everyone else around me. And there was her, a precious little parcel about to be delivered.

She twisted inside me, then breezed through the birth canal, entering the world with hardly a sound. Prolapsed cord, I heard, though the words couldn't reach me over the momentous relief. The pressure was gone. She was here!

Is she okay? I wanted to ask, but my strength was spent. What comforted me was the collectedness of the staff, which had tripled in size in the last three minutes, and the soft sound of her tiny cry. 

You did it, Nate congratulated me, his smile wide. He bent to cut her umbilical cord, the last thing connecting her to me. I'm so proud of you, he said, his hands still bloodied. He'd helped deliver her. He'd untangled the umbilical cord from her neck. Neither he nor the resident had had on gloves.

Thank you, I exhaled, exhausted. Where is she?

Amidst the haze, I heard the beeping. What's wrong?

Her oxygen is low, a new nurse said. They patted her limbs, prodded her to cry. She screamed while the resident pressed on my stomach, forcing the placenta to flow from my body. The pain was nothing next to the need to be reunited with her.

My baby girl. 

The sensor stopped beeping. Her oxygen was normal. The nurse held her out to me, smiling and saying something about how thrilling the birth had been. Everyone in the room was amazed, marveling, but they were impressed for the wrong reasons. They did this every day, but they didn't see the sacredness of this moment.

As soon as she was in my arms, I felt the wholeness of all she was. There were so many falsities claiming to be perfection, but none of them could come close to this; an angel trailing glory, a soul that knew no bounds. She was perfect, and yet had chosen me.

I love you, I whispered down at her, feeling the overwhelm of the mantel of motherhood as it again settled on me. And wanting to share with her what I had learned, I breathed, Trust yourself. You are enough. 

Hours later her siblings came to meet her. Emma, my little mommy, loved her instantly and could not be kept away. James got his fill of her in thirty seconds and wanted to watch the helicopter outside. What's her name? we asked Emma. She beamed, ecstatic to be given such an honor.

Her name is Lydia. 

I've struggled to write this story because a part of me wanted the perspective of the witnesses of her birth to be true. It would be simpler to accept the truth as they'd seen it, to take pride in her birth only because it had been "fast and easy." But that strips the beauty from the story. The truth is, we are all on a journey, and vulnerability is the bridge we must walk over on the road to discovering, and accepting, who we truly are.

I now believe something I think I've always known: The greatest victories are those won in the face of great opposition.

In light of this, I've started asking others how did you do it? I want to learn their secrets, to be privy to the truth of their story. A hero may come from nothing, but he never comes from easy.

Never.

In the weeks since Lydia has been a part of our family, we have all felt the sincerity of her spirit. She is a gift, and true to the middle name we felt guided to give her, Esther, she's every bit the dauntless heroine, facing the oodles of snuggles she gets from her siblings with little complaint.

When I look down at her, I'm struck with awe at how amazing she is, and then I realize how small, how fragile, how vulnerable she is. Yet I adore her. And I wonder, is this how my Heavenly Father feels about me? Could He love me not in spite of my vulnerabilities, but because of them?

I would never demand of my sweet four month old little girl that she get up and walk. I know she simply isn't capable of that yet, but I don't blame her for it. I'm not standing above her, keeping tally of every moment where she needs me, depends on me, cries out for me, and yet I assume my Father in Heaven is doing that very thing to me. After all, I'm keeping track, I know exactly how much I owe Him. But Lydia, she owes me nothing. In fact, her very existence is a blessing to me, regardless of what she is capable of.

Could my Father feel that way about me? About you? About all of us?

I'm beginning to see now how skewed my perspective of life has been. For now, what I'm certain of is that one day I will be whole, but today, I am merely a vulnerable soul in His hands.

And that is enough.

All my love,

Kamie