Don't Let Go!

"I see a tunnel!" I exclaimed, soon after the narcotics flowed from my IV into my bloodstream. The maternity nurse warned me that I might feel "a little sleepy." She failed to mention that I would be taken into another world, a dark place, where I had no control over my mind, or my body.

After experiencing vast amounts of pain from forced contractions, I asked if there was anything I could have -- just to take the edge off. Something "light" like Tylenol, or Aspirin, or Ibuprofen. I cannot remember the name of the drug they pumped through my veins, but there was nothing "light" about it. As soon as it was injected into the IV, I could feel the effects spread from the top of my head down to my toes, like a blood coolant. Once it hit my eyes, I could no longer keep them open . . . not even by force. Everything grew heavy. A great fog formed in my brain. I really saw tunnels, beckoning me to enter.

I can remember moaning and squirming uncomfortably, "Why do people do drugs?" I asked. The nurse came over to me and began to rub my feet (she was a fantastic Nurse, Pam was her name). She said in a calm whisper, "People do drugs because they cannot see the beautiful mountains, or smell the fresh air, or enjoy the world around them." My love for Pam grew even more as she tried to keep me with her.

And then it grew black. The light was gone. I could not see anything . . . except for tunnels. Tunnels, and brief images of my kids, and family, and random flashes of memory -- just like in the movies, before someone dies and their life flashes before their eyes. The images would appear and were only interrupted by intense pain that would come and go in unsteady waves. I wanted so badly to open my eyes, and come back to reality, but I couldn't. I was gone.

Charles came to my side and held onto my hand and interlocked our arms. It was the only comfort that I had. His touch was the only thing that kept me attached to the real world. I had never had such a strong connection with him as I did when he gently grabbed onto my arm. It was different somehow. I needed his touch. There was a moment when he let go, to adjust his position, and I remember begging for him to come back. (I never beg.) But I needed him . . . I needed him to not let go. I have never felt that way before. Not that way.

Normally, I am a tough girl. I fancy myself able to deal with pain and hard things -- without showing too much "girlish" emotion. But one thing that the drug did do for me was strip away any pride I had in my toughness. Not only did I want Charles to hold me close and tight (I always want him to, but do not always ask for it), but I needed him to hold me -- to keep me anchored, and be my light in the darkness that had overtaken my mind. I could not do it alone.

Charles is the only one that could have comforted me in that moment. Behind his firm hold on my arm, and our interlinked hands, existed 13 years of love, experiences, trials, faith, passion, and most of all . . . understanding. He is the only one who really knows me, completely. He is the only one who could have kept me from going under . . . from letting the darkness take me. It may sound overly dramatic, but it was really the case. Apparently, I can't handle drugs.

I must have been hurting his arms -- squeezing so tightly -- because he had to readjust a few times. When the contractions came I would almost rip him to shreds, just clinging onto him, searching for some help, some strength. The time kept ticking away, and I remained in my incoherent state. Charles had to sit down. At one point I held onto the collar of his shirt, I would pull and tug and grab onto the back of his neck, when the pain got intense and the darkness too deep.

My eyes were closed to the very end. The drugs kept me unable to move or think clearly, but the pain was still there. I was not asleep, but not awake. It was like my brain was numbed, not the pain. Not what I was hoping for when I requested to "take the edge off."  Taking the drugs was a bad choice for me. I remember finally opening my eyes when Charles said, "I can see his head!" That was the only cue I could comprehend . . . and then PUSH!!!

Through the tunnel . . . and I was back. Through the tunnel . . . Henry was born.

As I looked back over the experience I realized how much I love Charles. He has always been there for me in past birthing experiences, but this one was different. It has been more than 10 years since I gave birth for the first time, I was so young. We were so young. But now we have life, and time, and history behind us. There was strength in his touch that was not there the first time. There was a deeper love and connection this time, that was not there before. Time. Years. Understanding. Being one.

I sure love him. I always have, and I always will. 

May that connection grow ever stronger with time. May his firm grasp always save me from darkness and pull me through tunnels.

I love you, Charles.

NICU Shoes . . .

 DANSKO CLOGS = FANTASTIC FOOTWEAR!!

While in the maternity center, I noticed that most of the nurses were wearing AWESOME shoes. Almost all of the nurses were wearing CLOGS. They sported all sorts of different shoe fabrics and colors -- I think it is a way of expressing their identity, since they all have the same scrubs for an outfit. Now, I am not much of a fashion guru . . . but I do LOVE clogs. I had never seen so many different patterns and fabrics as I saw in the hospital . . . I guess I don't get out much. It made me smile every time I saw a fancy pair of these super-fun shoes. I am not really a "shoe girl" but these shoes have captured my attention, for some reason? I must be vulnerable right now. I do have a pair of clogs and I love them. They take a little while to break in, but after you break them in -- they conform to your foot and feel lovely. I think mama might need some new shoes . . . :-)

Stop and Smell the . . .

Dandelions???

I would rather not, thanks. But, alas, my yard is FULL of them. Actually, BOTH of my yards are full of them (our rental house and the house we live in). They seem to be really nasty this year. Not just my yard(s), but all over. My kids call them "wishes" and they delight in blowing the seeds all over the land. Cute. But not good. 

Yesterday, I was home from church with Henry, and I heard a knock on the door. I did not want to answer it, but I answered it anyway. There were two young boys eagerly waiting for me to open the door. I asked them what I could do for them, and they asked me if they could mow my lawn. (I am guessing not for free.) I told them, "No thanks, we are OK." I then shut the door. After they left, I peeked out the window to examine our front yard. There must have been a reason that they offered? The grass looked fine . . . it was the dang dandelions that ruined the overall image. The boys were from the house across the street (which is for sale), and I am guessing their parents sent them over -- hoping we would accept, so we do not throw-off their pristine neighborhood image. I let Charles know we are not in Kansas anymore. People are watching. People want order. (And weed-free yards.) No one ever cared about our yard in our other house, they were just happy we did our best to tend to it, and not leave garbage everywhere  -- dandelions were the least of our concerns. I am sure the new neighbors had the best intentions, but now I am paranoid. I don't want to cause upheaval in the neighborhood with our weeds. (Actually, they are not our weeds, it is a rental . . . they came with the house.) 

Anyway . . . I do need to KILL the nasty little things. How do you rid of dandelions?? (Without killing the grass!)  PLEASE LET ME KNOW!!! 

My neighbors will thank you.

One Day at a Time . . .

When I was in the hospital, time seemed to exist in another dimension. I felt like I was in some sort of alternate world, somewhere in between a dream and reality. I would look out of the window from the 8th floor, and I would see the world below me. There were storms, lightning, rain, and sun . . . all existing on the other side of the thick glass. I could see people walking around into stores, and jobs, and life -- just going about their day. I could see the people below -- like watching my own personal reality TV show. I could see them, but I wondered, "Did they ever look up at the hospital, and think about who might be on the 8th floor?" I know I never did. In the outside world there was life and action and beauty. There were swaying trees, changing weather, and wonderful fresh smells. In my inside world, there were beeping machines, IV's, shots, wires, and flashing lights. There was blood, needles, bandages, oxygen masks, and pain. Two very different worlds, separated only by glass and brick. I know I will never look at the hospital the same again. It is full of stories, full of people. It is full of life, death, illness, healing. If you are ever feeling low . . . take a trip to the hospital and just hang out in the lobby, and watch the people for awhile. It will not take long for gratitude to settle into your heart. I know I have felt immense gratitude wash over me as I walked the halls of the hospital, grateful for my trials. 

My view from the 8th Floor

While in my "inside world," I learned many valuable lessons. As I was waiting for Henry to come out of his surgery, they sent all sorts of professionals my way. One of the ladies that came to my room was a social worker -- wondering how I was holding up. I was honestly fine, just super tired. I kept thinking, "If people would just leave me alone, and let me rest, I would be GREAT!" I wanted to have a quiet moment while Henry was in surgery, so I could pray and ponder, peacefully. Instead I had the breast-feeding Nazis show up to instruct me how to use the cow-pump. I was really irritated at that point. I just wanted some peace, NOT how-to-cow instructions. I think my irritation was starting to show through, too -- the lady looked a little nervous. I was probably scowling at her. Poor girl. In my defense, I was still on drugs, having Alice and Wonderland type of hallucinations. Look at the pretty talking flowers . . . 

Even the social worker was getting on my nerves. However, she was kind and thoughtful, so I smiled and nodded, most of the time. She asked me how I was doing and I said, "I am just taking it one day at a time." She said that is "good," but she recommended breaking it down even smaller than that . . . one moment at a time, one meal at a time, one minute at a time. At first I thought she was crazy. Taking it one day at a time was hard enough for me! I am a future seeker, I anticipate things to come. I have a REALLY hard time living "in the moment". I want to know all about tomorrow! 

But being in the hospital for awhile forced me to slow down. I had no choice but to take it as it came. I had no control over what was happening, or even my schedule. All I could do was go through the motions, as life came at me . . . what a fabulous lesson to learn. Slow down, look around, breath, take in the moment. Just BE. 

Since then I have been better at enjoying the moment. I have also been able to say to myself, "Let it go." "Not right now.""It can be done later." There have been times where I felt I should be cleaning or cooking, or doing something, and instead I just sleep. It is fantastic. I can feel the knots in my stomach loosening. Let the stress go . . . breath in, breath out. Enjoy life. What's the hurry, anyway? Got a hot date with death? Not me. 

Sometimes you just need to slow down, and soak in the moment . . . for they pass all too quickly. 

Take time to snuggle . . . and love, more deeply. 

Enjoy the little things

 Just breath . . . 

 Take life as it comes. 

Each moment is a precious gift from God. 

Soak it in. 

Baby Henry is Here!

Sleep is such a beautiful thing. When I gather a little more, I will write about my experience in greater detail. For now, pictures and a brief re-cap are going to have to do. I did want to mention I managed labor induction, without an epidural, again. Mind over matter, right? That is all it is. Make the choice beforehand, and follow-through. No problem. By the end of labor, I thought death was upon me. I wanted death to come -- just take me out of the world, make it stop. At one point I screamed, "Please, help me!" (Screaming is NOT in my nature.) This birthing experience was by far the most difficult in many ways. (Just ask Charles, he was there.) I know part of it was because of the known "unknown" on the other side. But because of the hell that I walked through, I snuggle Henry really tight. I appreciate him, his life, and his sweet spirit. I consider him a miracle, a blessing from Heaven. And though this has been a very difficult time for me, I have learned so much that I would never have learned without walking through the fire . . . the Refiner's Fire. I know, and fear, there is more refining to come.

Oh the pain . . . what glorious pain. I love pain. 

When you are induced the contractions are more or less "forced" upon you, as anyone who has been induced will tell you -- it HURTS! Wham-O! It went too quickly this time and I went from being dilated to a 6 to pushing Henry out in a matter of minutes. Because of the "too rapid" of a decent, he came out totally bruised and battered . . . and on my end -- going from 6 to 10 in just minutes -- I was hoping death would come swiftly. I kept wondering if there was some way to turn back, but it was too late! I have given birth before and felt the pain, burn, etc. but this just did not feel "right". I grabbed onto Charles and ripped my fingernails into his side. I also grabbed the poor nurse who was on the other side of me, and I plunged my nails deep into her side. Poor thing. That's what you get for standing too close. I kept my eyes closed the whole time. I screamed and moaned and keep begging, "please" over and over. I was thrashing about, flinging my body to and fro. It was so intense, so painful, it was too hot . . . too much fire. I tried to breath, but really I just wanted to melt away into nothing . . . I wanted it all to go away . . . I wanted to go away. 

Charles before the torture began, we were all health and happiness for the first while. 

And then, finally, after 9 hours of forced labor . . . I was so relived to push out little Henry. It is such a weird feeling going from wishing to be taken from the world, to being able to breath and smile again -- in just a matter of minutes. From having the babies head stuck in the canal, ripping me to physical and emotional shreds . . . and then feeling better the moment his body is out. It is amazing. Bodies are amazing. Life is amazing. Bringing a life into the world is . . . amazing. 

This is how his poor face looked just moments after birth. He was totally bruised, all over, poor baby. His arms were so sad. He really had a rough go of it. 

Charles loving on Henry. He is such a good, loving daddy. The best. He managed the house while I was away for the week. He did an amazing job. 

Henry got to spend some time in the NICU. Come to find out, he has 4 kidneys. (We thought it was 3.) He had a blockage in his bladder because of the extra kidneys, and he had surgery to hopefully fix the problem. They went up through his "little boy part" with a stethoscope and a "hook" and sort of "popped" the blockage. We go back to the urologist in a month for another check on his system. If he looks good and there is no reflux back up into the kidneys, then we are good to go. If there is reflux he will have to take an antibiotic for a year and have kidney surgery. It is a 50/50 chance. Flip of a coin. Please pray for him. 

The NICU is a pretty amazing place. They work miracles there. I stayed with Henry over the week so that I could feed him. I managed to work my way to him every hour to two hours . . . no pumping. It was exhausting. I had 0 sleep. I started getting really mental walking the halls, up and down, back and forth, alone. (The narcotics they had me on did not help.) I don't know that I have ever felt so alone before in my life. At one point I was walking the halls, crying, uncontrollably -- very unlike me. It is like another world there, in the hospital. I learned so much just by looking around me, at all the people, and all the pain. But I also saw families gathered in circles, praying. I saw flowers, and love, and miracles all around me. It was such a growing experience for me. Horrible, yes, but I would not take it away. 

Poor Henry has been poked and prodded so many times. His little feet are all shredded from blood draws. 

He had a bit of jaundice so he got to spend time under the bilirubin lights. We had to bring a bili-blanket home with us, too. But he is doing well now. 

I sure love this little guy. Seeing your baby all wired-up is a hard thing to endure. You just want to snatch them away and run to a happy place where no one hurts. The double IV's in his hands were so sad. He has endured a lot in his week of life. We have been in and out of doctors since he was born and we have more fun to come.

Mama and Baby

The Boys

 Henry Jones van Ormer 

 Daniel admiring Henry

Exploring his little hand

 This is me after a night of pouring sweat. I was totally drenched. All the water they pumped into me was flushing itself out. It was pretty nasty. Henry looks cute, though. 

 In the NICU trying not to pass-out from exhaustion. 

The one time when you really need sleep to heal, you just can't seem to find it! 

 If you plan to have a baby, I highly recommend having a 10-11 year old daughter. She is mommy's helper. Thank goodness! 

 There are beautiful pictures all around the hospital. When I was having my rough moment, crying through the halls, I came across this image . . . I started to bawl like a baby. It looks just like my William. I just wanted to go home, to my family. I was so alone. Surrounded by people, but all alone. I wanted MY people. 

I am home now, thank goodness. Since I have been home I have cleaned-up pickle juice that spilled from a huge jar of pickles, over the ENTIRE contents of the fridge. (That was just 5 minutes after returning home from the hospital.)  I have also cleaned-up broken glass -- from a light bulb that shattered just inches away from my 5 year old William's head, while he was sleeping on my bedroom floor.  (I knocked the lamp over trying to turn off an alarm I had set for a nap.) It is back to "normal" life now. I am just so tired . . . I have cried numerous times over the last week, out of sheer exhaustion (and the pain of my milk coming in -- OUCH!). "This too shall pass " . . . I keep thinking to myself. But I don't want it to pass, not really. I want to enjoy these moments, with my little Henry. My little baby miracle. I don't want to wish my life away . . . this is what I wanted. This is why I endured 9 months of pregnancy. Yeah, I hurt. Yeah, I am tired beyond all get-out. But I also feel elevated somehow. . . . It is because I am in love. I am in love with my new, sweet, precious, gift from God. He is my boy that I would walk through fire for. He is my Henry.