This story may not be the most delicate way to introduce my late great-uncle Art, but it paints a small vignette of the man who is the second subject in my series of "Awesome Old People I Admire." (at least I think that's what I called it in my last post).
Born in 1909, my great uncle Art was the oldest in a family of three children. His mother died when he was young, and as was all too common in those days the three children were shipped to three separate relatives. He eventually settled in the small railroad and farming community where I grew up, where he remained a bachelor along with his own uncle and his father (my great-grandfather), who had remarried and divorced.
A man of order, Art had a strict schedule that he lived by. Change was anathema, and he lived without running water until entering the local nursing home at age eighty. He came to visit our farm each day at promptly 5 o'clock p.m. My mom tells of the time she found a snake in the house (? yard? I'll have to ask her) one afternoon around three, and the men were out in the field. Art was the only one she could think of to call. She frantically told him of her plight. "Ah, yah, I vill be out at 5 o'clock, den," he told her in his slow Norwegian brogue. It didn't occur to him that he would need to change his daily schedule. Three o'clock was likely the time slot devoted to feeding his birds.
His hatred of change was also reflected in the names of his dogs. Each one, regardless of its hue, bore the moniker "Brownie." Art had a special place in his heart for animals, and informally adopted many of the neighborhood strays. He was also a talented fiddle player, and was a large part of my own desire to learn the instrument.
And now the story. My dad has told this several times, and I will tell it from his point of view, to the best of my ability.
I stopped to see Art one cold fall day. We were building our house, and I had some extra scrap wood that I knew he'd appreciate for his cook stove. The entryway to his shack served as coal bin, woodpile and a waiting area for several neighborhood cats and the occasional dog.Art would regularly serve his guests ground round and other delectable tidbits, and his reputation was well-known in the animal community.
The wood stove was burning brightly when I entered, and there was a slight odor of food mixing in with the others of coffee, coal, and the other odors found in a seldom-cleaned living area. To my standard greeting of "What have you been up to?" Uncle Art gave his standard reply, "Oh, ye, I have been so busy. Yust vit small tings."
He invited me to sit down and share his pot of soup with him. I had been working hard on the house all morning, so had worked up quite an appetite. "Don't mind if I do." Art produced an old coffee mug which had surely been used several times before. He handed it to me, but upon noting its filthy condition he rubbed it on his overalls, which were shiny and black at the knees, no thanks to being used exclusively as a dishtowel. Inspecting the inside of the cup, he found additional grime, which was promptly wiped off with his fingers (which matched his overalls). My stomach turned.
The soup was served and I was hungry enough to overcome my initial impression of my uncle's culinary skills. I sat at the table with Art and one of his feline friends, and we shared some general conversation about the weather and community happenings.
Mid-slurp I heard a strange noise coming from behind the stove. It was one of the other feline guests, who looked a little beyond the help of Art's famous ground round. Art stopped eating, as well. "The poor cat is sick," he said quietly. "I will put him outside." He reached behind the stove. Grasping the retching cat under the belly had the effect of producing additional spillage from the other end of the animal, which spread in a wide arc across the floor.
To remedy the problem Art produced a large, dry mop, the business end of which stood on its own even when picked up. He attacked the mess firmly but slowly, thoroughly and with wide strokes spreading the offending substance as an additional layer on the already-grimy linoleum.
By now I had finished about half of my soup, and contemplated discreetly adding yet another layer to the floor mess; it would likely go unnoticed, the solid chunks being promptly cleaned up by a dog. But I held my breath and slurped up the soup, reminding myself that as a hog farmer I really should be immune to anything.
I was needed back at the house, I told him, thanked him for the soup, and said I'd see him at five.
My wife, very pregnant and somewhat squeamish about such things, noted my pallor as I walked through the door. I decided to spare her the details at that moment, and just said I'd dropped off wood at Art's shack. No need for further explanation. "Well, wash up, then. I'm sure you're hungry," she said and took a bowl to retrieve some soup from the large kettle on the stove.
Monday, December 14, 2015
Wednesday, November 25, 2015
A fiddle and some old 33s
Welcome to my first installment of "Really Cool Old People I've Been Super Fortunate to Know."
It was a few years ago that I was introduced to a man named "Henry" (name changed). A music playing friend of mine insisted that I meet this "really cool old guy" who lived south of me near what she calls "Rattlesnake Butte." When my schedule finally allowed I took a short trip (only about ten miles from our house) to meet the renowned Henry. She had written a song about him, in fact, entitled "Cowboy Romance."
Now Vernon is an old man, but he's coiled like a wire
Focused like a serpent when the guitars come out
His hair is still curly underneath the felt hat
That he spraypainted black to keep the rain out.
(excerpt from Cowboy Romance by Erin Espeland)
Upon entering his place I had a feeling of stepping back in time; both time in general and, specifically to me, visiting my great uncle Art, who lived without running water in an old shack. A gentle man of precise routine (he came to our farm every day at precisely 5 o'clock), he was more fond of playing music and caring for his animals than he was cleanliness.
Aside from the lack of cleanliness I could have been visiting Uncle Art again. Henry lived in a trailer with no running water or telephone, although he did have the luxury of electricity. Dogs and horses greeted us as we set down our instruments around the fire pit. Henry was in his mid-seventies, wiry and strong, neatly dressed in a button up shirt, blue jeans and a well-worn hat. A man of very few words, he offered a beer and promised us that some steaks that were cooking in a cast iron pan over the fire would soon be ready to eat.
We played music that night until it was too dark to see the strings. Henry brought out his favorite piece of technology, a Tascam recorder, and recorded our music. Now and then he would bring one of his own instruments, a viola or an accordion, for me to play. I felt at home enough to plunk out some tunes, and he seemed satisfied.
Fast forward a few years and two children later, I once again got the chance to visit Henry again at his home. This time it was in the dead of summer and we played in the trailer to avoid mosquitoes.
We play in the summer house
With windows blown broken
A house that's too cold for eight months of the year.
With a Tascam recorder and video camera
He'll watch me sing songs and we'll both drink cheap beer.
It was a moving experience for me, for some reason I couldn't place. My music friend had just been diagnosed with ALS and we hadn't been able to get together. Henry was approaching his eightieth birthday. I knew this time was special. This time he got out his record player and played a few fiddle tunes he knew I'd enjoy. Coincidentally many of the albums were the same ones that Uncle Art (a fiddle player) had given my dad. He asked if I might want some of the records, and I declined as I don't own a working record player. I drove home in a dream that evening, singing my friend's song to myself and counting myself lucky for having such wonderful, unique people in my life.
About a week later I got a text from Erin. A tornado had ripped through Henry's place, completely razing his trailer and outbuildings. Henry was in the hospital in Billings, and she would update me as she got word. My stomach sank, and I asked everyone I knew from the area if they'd heard anything. Not many people were even aware of who he was.
Luckily he made a full recovery. The community pulled together and opened a benefit account for him to rebuild, or something. Everything he owned had been scattered to the wind that night. I visited him at his homesite for his birthday, playing music and sharing a pie. He was now living in a borrowed SUV with his dogs, who had also miraculously survived. Henry was in good spirits, but there wasn't much talk of what his plans were. I didn't feel it was my place to ask.
I got another text a couple months later. Erin and Henry were coming by for a visit and would by by in a few minutes. Usually that means that I sweep the floor, hide the dishes in the dishwasher, etc., but I knew no such pretenses were necessary, which is pretty unusual for me.
Henry came walking spryly up the stairs carrying an armful of 33s. "I found these in the crick bottom," he said. "I will go get another load." Pretty soon the remnants of Henry's record collection graced my kitchen table. He had one more trip to make to the pickup, though.
"I don't know what my plans are for the winter or when I'll see you again," he explained to me as he handed me his fiddle. "You can have this." Like the records, the fiddle had survived the trip through the tornado and was still playable. He gave me a long hug, and I could sense more emotion than an old cowboy will generally admit.
I was in a bit of shock after they left, realizing that my friend had just given me most of his remaining possessions. Without a phone or address to contact him, I was afraid it might indeed be a long time until I could properly thank him.
Luckily he was able to relocate to a relative's yard and built himself a shack. At about 8 by 16 feet, a wood stove keeps it toasty warm and there is just enough room for him and his dogs. We are neighbors now by about two or three miles, and he can see my house from his lone window. I wanted to add money to his benefit account, but he had closed it. Apparently he felt he had enough.
I share this mostly because I think Henry is an awesome person, because I am thankful to have such a friend. I also share it because of the parable Jesus told of the widow giving her last penny. You know the one I'm talking about. The parable points us to our own sin, like many others; we worry about having "enough" and it often gets in the way of helping others, giving to the church or just being content with what we've got. My prayer is that Jesus offers grace to help me with my own greed, and forgives me when I fail.
It was a few years ago that I was introduced to a man named "Henry" (name changed). A music playing friend of mine insisted that I meet this "really cool old guy" who lived south of me near what she calls "Rattlesnake Butte." When my schedule finally allowed I took a short trip (only about ten miles from our house) to meet the renowned Henry. She had written a song about him, in fact, entitled "Cowboy Romance."
Now Vernon is an old man, but he's coiled like a wire
Focused like a serpent when the guitars come out
His hair is still curly underneath the felt hat
That he spraypainted black to keep the rain out.
(excerpt from Cowboy Romance by Erin Espeland)
Upon entering his place I had a feeling of stepping back in time; both time in general and, specifically to me, visiting my great uncle Art, who lived without running water in an old shack. A gentle man of precise routine (he came to our farm every day at precisely 5 o'clock), he was more fond of playing music and caring for his animals than he was cleanliness.
Aside from the lack of cleanliness I could have been visiting Uncle Art again. Henry lived in a trailer with no running water or telephone, although he did have the luxury of electricity. Dogs and horses greeted us as we set down our instruments around the fire pit. Henry was in his mid-seventies, wiry and strong, neatly dressed in a button up shirt, blue jeans and a well-worn hat. A man of very few words, he offered a beer and promised us that some steaks that were cooking in a cast iron pan over the fire would soon be ready to eat.
We played music that night until it was too dark to see the strings. Henry brought out his favorite piece of technology, a Tascam recorder, and recorded our music. Now and then he would bring one of his own instruments, a viola or an accordion, for me to play. I felt at home enough to plunk out some tunes, and he seemed satisfied.
Fast forward a few years and two children later, I once again got the chance to visit Henry again at his home. This time it was in the dead of summer and we played in the trailer to avoid mosquitoes.
We play in the summer house
With windows blown broken
A house that's too cold for eight months of the year.
With a Tascam recorder and video camera
He'll watch me sing songs and we'll both drink cheap beer.
It was a moving experience for me, for some reason I couldn't place. My music friend had just been diagnosed with ALS and we hadn't been able to get together. Henry was approaching his eightieth birthday. I knew this time was special. This time he got out his record player and played a few fiddle tunes he knew I'd enjoy. Coincidentally many of the albums were the same ones that Uncle Art (a fiddle player) had given my dad. He asked if I might want some of the records, and I declined as I don't own a working record player. I drove home in a dream that evening, singing my friend's song to myself and counting myself lucky for having such wonderful, unique people in my life.
About a week later I got a text from Erin. A tornado had ripped through Henry's place, completely razing his trailer and outbuildings. Henry was in the hospital in Billings, and she would update me as she got word. My stomach sank, and I asked everyone I knew from the area if they'd heard anything. Not many people were even aware of who he was.
Luckily he made a full recovery. The community pulled together and opened a benefit account for him to rebuild, or something. Everything he owned had been scattered to the wind that night. I visited him at his homesite for his birthday, playing music and sharing a pie. He was now living in a borrowed SUV with his dogs, who had also miraculously survived. Henry was in good spirits, but there wasn't much talk of what his plans were. I didn't feel it was my place to ask.
I got another text a couple months later. Erin and Henry were coming by for a visit and would by by in a few minutes. Usually that means that I sweep the floor, hide the dishes in the dishwasher, etc., but I knew no such pretenses were necessary, which is pretty unusual for me.
Henry came walking spryly up the stairs carrying an armful of 33s. "I found these in the crick bottom," he said. "I will go get another load." Pretty soon the remnants of Henry's record collection graced my kitchen table. He had one more trip to make to the pickup, though.
"I don't know what my plans are for the winter or when I'll see you again," he explained to me as he handed me his fiddle. "You can have this." Like the records, the fiddle had survived the trip through the tornado and was still playable. He gave me a long hug, and I could sense more emotion than an old cowboy will generally admit.
I was in a bit of shock after they left, realizing that my friend had just given me most of his remaining possessions. Without a phone or address to contact him, I was afraid it might indeed be a long time until I could properly thank him.
Luckily he was able to relocate to a relative's yard and built himself a shack. At about 8 by 16 feet, a wood stove keeps it toasty warm and there is just enough room for him and his dogs. We are neighbors now by about two or three miles, and he can see my house from his lone window. I wanted to add money to his benefit account, but he had closed it. Apparently he felt he had enough.
I share this mostly because I think Henry is an awesome person, because I am thankful to have such a friend. I also share it because of the parable Jesus told of the widow giving her last penny. You know the one I'm talking about. The parable points us to our own sin, like many others; we worry about having "enough" and it often gets in the way of helping others, giving to the church or just being content with what we've got. My prayer is that Jesus offers grace to help me with my own greed, and forgives me when I fail.
Wednesday, April 22, 2015
Josie's beautiful Hypnobabies birth
Josie joined our family outside the womb on February 4, which is already almost three months ago! I've been wanting to chronicle our birth experience, since it was so full of ups and downs and (spoiler alert!) turned out being so much better than I could have ever dreamed!
We found out that we were due with a February baby the day I returned from spending three weeks at my parents' farm helping with planting. I had been pretty sure for about a week that my excessive tiredness and huge appetite were due to the upcoming arrival, but that day's test finally confirmed it.
Our two-year-old, Matthias, had provided me with a "dream" pregnancy and a "not so great" delivery I felt wonderful and energetic the whole pregnancy. He was induced one day past our due date due to "low amniotic fluid," and after less than six hours of labor was born with the assistance of a vacuum. I had every form of pain relief I could get during my short labor, and required multiple prescriptions for weeks afterwards. My doctor said that my next delivery would likely result in a similar experience.
I told my husband that if we were going to have another child things would have to be different. I wanted to be prepared this time. I wanted to labor in the positions of my choice and NOT be on my back while delivering our next baby. His first comment was, "Well, you're not gonna do hypnosis or something crazy like that." My reply was that I'd do whatever I thought was necessary to have a better childbirth experience.
This pregnancy was different than my first in every way. Although I wasn't puking sick, I felt nauseous every evening and after every meal, had almost no appetite, and OH, the heartburn.
I decided to give birth in a neighboring town, as the hospital I'd had Matthias in had a 40 percent c-section rate! Forty percent! Our neighboring hospital fared slightly better at 30 percent. We live in what was once a very rural area, now home to the Bakken energy boom. The hospital that once birthed 200 babies in a year is now birthing 800-some, with about the same amount of resources.
There was only one pracitioner who was taking new clients. Prayerfully (and with fingers crossed) I began seeing her. Although there were no big red flags at first, my doctor appointments reflected the whole atmosphere of the Bakken area: rush, rush, rush. Overbooked, understaffed and overwhelmed.
I hired a doula, Kirsten, from a local agency. We met and she was interested in helping me have a better birth experience with childbirth hypnosis. My husband had finally consented that I could do whatever "burlap hippy craziness" that I felt would help, although he didn't think it would work and that I'd be asking for pain relief as soon as things got "bad."
My care provider took my birth plan, but seemed to largely brush it off at each appointment. She was in too much of a hurry, it seemed, to work with someone who wanted to make extra "work" for her or the hospital staff. I began to feel quite discouraged, but continued to do my daily Hypnobabies practice religiously, listening to my daily affirmations and practicing at least five times a day. The daily relaxation script was a lifesaver on days when I was too busy to "nap." In fact, I didn't seem to need a nap as I actually felt energetic and refreshed after every session.
At 36 weeks I got the news that I had tested positive for group B strep and would have to have antibiotics during labor. I took the news hard at first, as I had wanted to labor at home until the last possible minute, and this would require me to go in earlier, not to mention have an IV drip. But that was no big deal compared to the next news!
At 37 weeks I learned the hospital was on flu lockdown. Each woman having a baby was allowed one attendant, who would remain with her (nontransferable) throughout the entire stay. That meant I had to choose between my doula and my husband. This was a major stressor for me, and Jon really got on board at this point, learning about Hypnobabies and helping me relax about our upcoming birth. It meant a lot to me when he told me one night, "This will work, Laura. You will do great."
My mom and I planned to spend the days preceding Josie's birth at my grandma's house a couple miles from the hospital. Grandma had passed away in September after a long battle with Alzheimer's and a short battle with cancer. Incidentally, we found out Josie was a girl the same day my mom and her siblings decided to pursue hospice care for my grandma. I was able to tell Grandma we were going to have a girl, and she reacted with a smile. That was the last time I saw her.
Grandma's house has always been a haven to me, and being there during my early birthing time, I thought, would be a healing time, as well as a time to make new memories and relive old ones. This was where my mom had spent time before having my sister and me, and this would be a time for my mom and I to do the same thing, while also being the best place logistically.
I had been having pressure waves every night for about a week, so I left our house Super Bowl Sunday (I was 39.5 weeks) and spent the next few days at Grandma's. Mom, Matthias, and I had a blast in those couple days. We toured the local recreation center (and got a lot of walking in) and reminisced. My dad and I took in a local wheat show the day before I had Josie, which is where I first started actually timing my contractions. Afterwards I went to the chiropractor for an adjustment, had a scrumptious piece of pie at a cafe with my dad, and went back to Grandma's.
By now I was feeling a little "off my feed." My aunt and uncle invited us over for supper, but I just wasn't feeling sociable or all that hungry. So I guiltily ate some left overs and we went back to the recreation center to take Matthias swimming. I clumsily dog paddled a couple laps before becoming completely exhausted. I remember thinking that whoever else was in the pool was likely unimpressed by my swimming ability until I got out of the water!
By 8:30 p.m., (the night before my due date) I was having pressure waves pretty consistently 20 minutes apart. I called Jon to tell him it "might" be the night, and Kirsten, as well, who was going to be in the waiting room for us and connect via FaceTime. Immediately I started second guessing as I'd been having contractions for days and days, so how was this any different? Mom and I (who had been up talking until the wee hours of the morning the last few nights) resolved to get some sleep, but just kept visiting. I turned on my birthing day affirmations and listened to the fear clearing track, as well. At 10:30 I called Jon and said he should probably get coming. He had gotten up at 4:30 a.m., worked all day, and had just hit the pillow. Now he had to feed and water the animals and get on the road!
Kirsten came at about 1:30 a.m. I told Jon to get some sleep, as he would be the one with me at the hospital, and we timed my contractions. When they were 3 minutes apart we gathered our things and went to the hospital. It was about 7 degrees with a strong, cold wind, and I was already shivering, so when we got in the pickup I felt myself almost convulsing with cold!
The ob ward was much quieter than we'd expected. We were led to a quiet, dimly lit room and greeted by the two nurses on duty. "So you're the one doing hypnosis!" was how one nurse began. "I'm so excited to see how it works!" the other nurse exclaimed. "I always love working with mothers who decide to birth naturally." I could have dropped through the floor with relief. They already had my birth plan. My doctor had even talked to them about it. They offered a gown "in case I wanted it," but I chose to wear my own clothes, something I didn't think I would have had the option to do.
"You hired a doula and they're not letting her in?" was the next suprise statement we got from our nurse. "I'm going to see what we can do about that." I had felt like we had exhausted all channels beforehand, calling the hospital, clinic, administration, all to no avail. At least our nurses understand the situation, I thought.
I checked in at 4 to 5 centimeters at 4:30 a.m. I had been hoping my progress would have been greater, but was determined not to be discouraged. We walked the halls, I listened to my "Easy First Stage" track and relaxed. We were informed that we had the run of the entire hospital, which meant we could go to the waiting room and hang out with Kirsten! During a pressure wave I would relax my whole body and lean against the counter or wall, or Jon would do the double hip squeeze, and that made the pressure pretty much disappear at that point!
By 6:30 a.m. I had progressed to 6-7 centimeters. I was still feeling about the same, walking around, sneaking food (as the broth they provided just wasn't cutting it!), and spending time in the wonderful jet tub in our room. I even spent some time on Facebook. When one friend messaged me to see how I was doing and I told her I was at the hospital at 7 cm, I figured it was time to quit Facebooking! My contractions were farther apart now; they had slowed to 8 minutes apart and eventually fifteen.
The shift had changed, and now our nurse was actually the wife of my mom's cousin, who I knew through family gatherings. I knew she had a lot of experience and felt comfortable talking to her!
At noon my doctor came by. I was still at 7 centimeters, and she began talking about breaking my waters. We politely refused and kept on walking. Sitting on the birthing ball was very uncomfortable, so I avoided that. I was most comfortable walking, being in the tub, or (ironically) in the bed. I'm wondering if it was because I always practiced my scripts in bed, so that was where I felt that the hypnosis "worked" the best; I was able to deal best with my pressure waves using hypnosis, whereas while walking, etc., I did rely more on the double hip squeeze or leaning against the wall.
At this point we received the best news we could have imagined getting: someone (our nurses?) had talked to someone, etc., all the way up to the CEO of the hospital about our situation with our doula and the flu restrictions, and we got the OK for Kirsten to join us in the delivery room! It seemed like common sense to me, since we already had the option of walking around the hospital, but I hadn't anticipated common sense being used.
When my water still hadn't broken early in the afternoon, we began to take things more seriously, as I had already had a couple doses of antibiotic and didn't want to do too much of that; thus the "hurry" I felt from my doctor to help labor progress. We tried various methods to help the contractions become stronger. They helped and became more intense, but at 3:30 p.m. I was still at 7 cm. At this point I felt at peace about having my waters broken. I consented to the procedure.
Things got intense immediately. I felt at the time that I threw the Hypnobabies program "out the window" at this point, as I would be lying to say that it wasn't painful. But I didn't think of asking for pain relief, and had no desire for it on any level of my consciousness. I chose to remain in bed in a kneeling position. As our nurse started to leave the room, I knew I had to push.
I told Jon to put on the "Pushing Baby Out" track, but there was no way any of us could hear it, at least not me. I remembered reading in my workbook that vocalizing can give a person power, whether they're lifting something heavy, or pushing out a baby, or whatever! With Matthias I had been so afraid of making a weird noise during labor I tried to be quiet. Sheesh. This time I opened my throat and just let whatever sound was there come out. It kind of scared me (and Jon!); it would start as a musical tone with strong vibrato, progressing to something akin to a crazed zombie extra in The Walking Dead. But it felt so good! My throat was raw, but with each wave the sound just seemed to give me more and more power!
It felt like five minutes had passed when I heard a remark about lots of dark hair and they encouraged me to feel the baby's head. I didn't think there was any way I could be birthing my baby's head already, and I was so prepared for a bald baby that I was pretty sure what I felt coming out was a yak or something. The next moments were a blur of concentration, sweat (I don't normally sweat, so looking down at my arm and seeing sweat was kind of a shock), and lots and lots of weird zombie noises!
Josie was born at 4:21 p.m., 40 minutes after my doctor had broken my waters. She was immediately put on my chest, and I was shocked by how big she was and how much hair she had. Matthias had been a bald, 6 lb. 12 oz little guy. Josie was 7 lb. 15 oz., with a head chock-full of long, thick, black hair! She latched on powerfully almost immediately and stayed with me under a warm blanket until I offered her to the nurse to clean up. By then it was supper time, as I recall, and I had sent Jon to the burrito joint to get me the biggest, fullest burrito I could get! I was starving, and so looking forward to eating something without heartburn afterwards!
The nurses that came in throughout my stay asked me about my delivery and commented on how awake and alert Josie was because of the lack of drugs in my system. Even the baby doctor who came to check Josie congratulated me on a drug-free delivery and said he could always tell a difference, as he had been delivering babies back when drug-free birthing was "normal" in the 70s and early 80s.
When I decided to try Hypnobabies, I didn't tell a whole lot of people about it for fear it would end up being "hokey" and useless. I decided that if it worked, however, I'd be shouting it from the rooftops! Not because I think I deserve a medal or because Josie's birth was any more "natural" than the next, but to raise awareness that a mother has choices in childbirth, and that through education and planning, you can have a greater chance of having the birth you want!
We found out that we were due with a February baby the day I returned from spending three weeks at my parents' farm helping with planting. I had been pretty sure for about a week that my excessive tiredness and huge appetite were due to the upcoming arrival, but that day's test finally confirmed it.
Our two-year-old, Matthias, had provided me with a "dream" pregnancy and a "not so great" delivery I felt wonderful and energetic the whole pregnancy. He was induced one day past our due date due to "low amniotic fluid," and after less than six hours of labor was born with the assistance of a vacuum. I had every form of pain relief I could get during my short labor, and required multiple prescriptions for weeks afterwards. My doctor said that my next delivery would likely result in a similar experience.
I told my husband that if we were going to have another child things would have to be different. I wanted to be prepared this time. I wanted to labor in the positions of my choice and NOT be on my back while delivering our next baby. His first comment was, "Well, you're not gonna do hypnosis or something crazy like that." My reply was that I'd do whatever I thought was necessary to have a better childbirth experience.
This pregnancy was different than my first in every way. Although I wasn't puking sick, I felt nauseous every evening and after every meal, had almost no appetite, and OH, the heartburn.
I decided to give birth in a neighboring town, as the hospital I'd had Matthias in had a 40 percent c-section rate! Forty percent! Our neighboring hospital fared slightly better at 30 percent. We live in what was once a very rural area, now home to the Bakken energy boom. The hospital that once birthed 200 babies in a year is now birthing 800-some, with about the same amount of resources.
There was only one pracitioner who was taking new clients. Prayerfully (and with fingers crossed) I began seeing her. Although there were no big red flags at first, my doctor appointments reflected the whole atmosphere of the Bakken area: rush, rush, rush. Overbooked, understaffed and overwhelmed.
I hired a doula, Kirsten, from a local agency. We met and she was interested in helping me have a better birth experience with childbirth hypnosis. My husband had finally consented that I could do whatever "burlap hippy craziness" that I felt would help, although he didn't think it would work and that I'd be asking for pain relief as soon as things got "bad."
My care provider took my birth plan, but seemed to largely brush it off at each appointment. She was in too much of a hurry, it seemed, to work with someone who wanted to make extra "work" for her or the hospital staff. I began to feel quite discouraged, but continued to do my daily Hypnobabies practice religiously, listening to my daily affirmations and practicing at least five times a day. The daily relaxation script was a lifesaver on days when I was too busy to "nap." In fact, I didn't seem to need a nap as I actually felt energetic and refreshed after every session.
At 36 weeks I got the news that I had tested positive for group B strep and would have to have antibiotics during labor. I took the news hard at first, as I had wanted to labor at home until the last possible minute, and this would require me to go in earlier, not to mention have an IV drip. But that was no big deal compared to the next news!
At 37 weeks I learned the hospital was on flu lockdown. Each woman having a baby was allowed one attendant, who would remain with her (nontransferable) throughout the entire stay. That meant I had to choose between my doula and my husband. This was a major stressor for me, and Jon really got on board at this point, learning about Hypnobabies and helping me relax about our upcoming birth. It meant a lot to me when he told me one night, "This will work, Laura. You will do great."
My mom and I planned to spend the days preceding Josie's birth at my grandma's house a couple miles from the hospital. Grandma had passed away in September after a long battle with Alzheimer's and a short battle with cancer. Incidentally, we found out Josie was a girl the same day my mom and her siblings decided to pursue hospice care for my grandma. I was able to tell Grandma we were going to have a girl, and she reacted with a smile. That was the last time I saw her.
Grandma's house has always been a haven to me, and being there during my early birthing time, I thought, would be a healing time, as well as a time to make new memories and relive old ones. This was where my mom had spent time before having my sister and me, and this would be a time for my mom and I to do the same thing, while also being the best place logistically.
I had been having pressure waves every night for about a week, so I left our house Super Bowl Sunday (I was 39.5 weeks) and spent the next few days at Grandma's. Mom, Matthias, and I had a blast in those couple days. We toured the local recreation center (and got a lot of walking in) and reminisced. My dad and I took in a local wheat show the day before I had Josie, which is where I first started actually timing my contractions. Afterwards I went to the chiropractor for an adjustment, had a scrumptious piece of pie at a cafe with my dad, and went back to Grandma's.
By now I was feeling a little "off my feed." My aunt and uncle invited us over for supper, but I just wasn't feeling sociable or all that hungry. So I guiltily ate some left overs and we went back to the recreation center to take Matthias swimming. I clumsily dog paddled a couple laps before becoming completely exhausted. I remember thinking that whoever else was in the pool was likely unimpressed by my swimming ability until I got out of the water!
By 8:30 p.m., (the night before my due date) I was having pressure waves pretty consistently 20 minutes apart. I called Jon to tell him it "might" be the night, and Kirsten, as well, who was going to be in the waiting room for us and connect via FaceTime. Immediately I started second guessing as I'd been having contractions for days and days, so how was this any different? Mom and I (who had been up talking until the wee hours of the morning the last few nights) resolved to get some sleep, but just kept visiting. I turned on my birthing day affirmations and listened to the fear clearing track, as well. At 10:30 I called Jon and said he should probably get coming. He had gotten up at 4:30 a.m., worked all day, and had just hit the pillow. Now he had to feed and water the animals and get on the road!
Kirsten came at about 1:30 a.m. I told Jon to get some sleep, as he would be the one with me at the hospital, and we timed my contractions. When they were 3 minutes apart we gathered our things and went to the hospital. It was about 7 degrees with a strong, cold wind, and I was already shivering, so when we got in the pickup I felt myself almost convulsing with cold!
The ob ward was much quieter than we'd expected. We were led to a quiet, dimly lit room and greeted by the two nurses on duty. "So you're the one doing hypnosis!" was how one nurse began. "I'm so excited to see how it works!" the other nurse exclaimed. "I always love working with mothers who decide to birth naturally." I could have dropped through the floor with relief. They already had my birth plan. My doctor had even talked to them about it. They offered a gown "in case I wanted it," but I chose to wear my own clothes, something I didn't think I would have had the option to do.
"You hired a doula and they're not letting her in?" was the next suprise statement we got from our nurse. "I'm going to see what we can do about that." I had felt like we had exhausted all channels beforehand, calling the hospital, clinic, administration, all to no avail. At least our nurses understand the situation, I thought.
I checked in at 4 to 5 centimeters at 4:30 a.m. I had been hoping my progress would have been greater, but was determined not to be discouraged. We walked the halls, I listened to my "Easy First Stage" track and relaxed. We were informed that we had the run of the entire hospital, which meant we could go to the waiting room and hang out with Kirsten! During a pressure wave I would relax my whole body and lean against the counter or wall, or Jon would do the double hip squeeze, and that made the pressure pretty much disappear at that point!
By 6:30 a.m. I had progressed to 6-7 centimeters. I was still feeling about the same, walking around, sneaking food (as the broth they provided just wasn't cutting it!), and spending time in the wonderful jet tub in our room. I even spent some time on Facebook. When one friend messaged me to see how I was doing and I told her I was at the hospital at 7 cm, I figured it was time to quit Facebooking! My contractions were farther apart now; they had slowed to 8 minutes apart and eventually fifteen.
The shift had changed, and now our nurse was actually the wife of my mom's cousin, who I knew through family gatherings. I knew she had a lot of experience and felt comfortable talking to her!
At noon my doctor came by. I was still at 7 centimeters, and she began talking about breaking my waters. We politely refused and kept on walking. Sitting on the birthing ball was very uncomfortable, so I avoided that. I was most comfortable walking, being in the tub, or (ironically) in the bed. I'm wondering if it was because I always practiced my scripts in bed, so that was where I felt that the hypnosis "worked" the best; I was able to deal best with my pressure waves using hypnosis, whereas while walking, etc., I did rely more on the double hip squeeze or leaning against the wall.
At this point we received the best news we could have imagined getting: someone (our nurses?) had talked to someone, etc., all the way up to the CEO of the hospital about our situation with our doula and the flu restrictions, and we got the OK for Kirsten to join us in the delivery room! It seemed like common sense to me, since we already had the option of walking around the hospital, but I hadn't anticipated common sense being used.
When my water still hadn't broken early in the afternoon, we began to take things more seriously, as I had already had a couple doses of antibiotic and didn't want to do too much of that; thus the "hurry" I felt from my doctor to help labor progress. We tried various methods to help the contractions become stronger. They helped and became more intense, but at 3:30 p.m. I was still at 7 cm. At this point I felt at peace about having my waters broken. I consented to the procedure.
Things got intense immediately. I felt at the time that I threw the Hypnobabies program "out the window" at this point, as I would be lying to say that it wasn't painful. But I didn't think of asking for pain relief, and had no desire for it on any level of my consciousness. I chose to remain in bed in a kneeling position. As our nurse started to leave the room, I knew I had to push.
I told Jon to put on the "Pushing Baby Out" track, but there was no way any of us could hear it, at least not me. I remembered reading in my workbook that vocalizing can give a person power, whether they're lifting something heavy, or pushing out a baby, or whatever! With Matthias I had been so afraid of making a weird noise during labor I tried to be quiet. Sheesh. This time I opened my throat and just let whatever sound was there come out. It kind of scared me (and Jon!); it would start as a musical tone with strong vibrato, progressing to something akin to a crazed zombie extra in The Walking Dead. But it felt so good! My throat was raw, but with each wave the sound just seemed to give me more and more power!
It felt like five minutes had passed when I heard a remark about lots of dark hair and they encouraged me to feel the baby's head. I didn't think there was any way I could be birthing my baby's head already, and I was so prepared for a bald baby that I was pretty sure what I felt coming out was a yak or something. The next moments were a blur of concentration, sweat (I don't normally sweat, so looking down at my arm and seeing sweat was kind of a shock), and lots and lots of weird zombie noises!
Josie was born at 4:21 p.m., 40 minutes after my doctor had broken my waters. She was immediately put on my chest, and I was shocked by how big she was and how much hair she had. Matthias had been a bald, 6 lb. 12 oz little guy. Josie was 7 lb. 15 oz., with a head chock-full of long, thick, black hair! She latched on powerfully almost immediately and stayed with me under a warm blanket until I offered her to the nurse to clean up. By then it was supper time, as I recall, and I had sent Jon to the burrito joint to get me the biggest, fullest burrito I could get! I was starving, and so looking forward to eating something without heartburn afterwards!
The nurses that came in throughout my stay asked me about my delivery and commented on how awake and alert Josie was because of the lack of drugs in my system. Even the baby doctor who came to check Josie congratulated me on a drug-free delivery and said he could always tell a difference, as he had been delivering babies back when drug-free birthing was "normal" in the 70s and early 80s.
When I decided to try Hypnobabies, I didn't tell a whole lot of people about it for fear it would end up being "hokey" and useless. I decided that if it worked, however, I'd be shouting it from the rooftops! Not because I think I deserve a medal or because Josie's birth was any more "natural" than the next, but to raise awareness that a mother has choices in childbirth, and that through education and planning, you can have a greater chance of having the birth you want!
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