It was another mundane day at work. I was a letter sorter at UPS, as good a gig as an Anglo-kid could get in Montreal without really trying. I was good at it, I was pretty much king-shit at the warehouse. I had control of the radio. If I had my choice it would have been the campus radio station, but I needed to please as many of my co-workers as possible, and also keep myself sane, and at least mildly amused, so the radio stayed on the classic rock channel all day long. What does it matter? I will tell you, hold on.
I was sorting letters, not really paying attention to the radio, when a classic rock tune was cut off midway through. Odd. Then I hear the DJ say that he is getting breaking news that a plane has hit one of the Twin Towers in New York. Wow, I thought, that's some crazy shit. Then I continued to sort again. The music continued, everything was back to normal. So I thought.
I am not sure how long 'normal' lasted. There was nothing at all normal about this day. Well duh, you say, this was 9/11, the shit was just beginning to hit the fan.
The music stopped. The DJs, the morning guys, cheesy jokesters, were suddenly serious, shocked, numb. They reported that a second plane had hit the second Tower, and that it appeared that there was a terrorist attack under way in New York City. Holy shit!
Everything stopped. The warehouse ground to a halt. No boxes moved on the treadmills, I dropped my bag of letters. The odd person asked, what the hell is happening? What do we do now? Why is this happening? Why indeed.
We were sent home. I remember how calm and sedate the drive home was. I had the news channel on the radio, as I think everyone else did. Montreal at 9:00 am, usually a wall to wall, survival of the fittest, jungle of a drive, seemed orderly... you could sense the shock in the air.
My girlfriend who had just gotten out of bed, met me at the door in tears, and said, 'Joe have you heard the news? It's all over the TV.' Yes, I said, 'They sent us home, not sure when they will call us back.' I then plunked down on the couch, where I watched the news almost 24/7 for a week.
On the couch, my still teary, but relatively appeased girlfriend curled up at my side. I witnessed the towers collapse. All I could think was, this isn't real, this is like a big budget action movie. How could this happen? Why, what is the point? Terrorism, Bin Laden, I felt were nothing more then the things of fairy tales, they were the monsters in closets, the troll under bridges. This isn't real, why now? Christ we just got past the hype of Y2K. Hell the US has a mental midget for a President, are we all doomed?
I didn't feel emotional until a few days later when then Canadian Prime Minister Jean Chretien made a speech at a memorial for the victims of the attacks of 9/11. Chretien is not a noted orator. He is the little guy from Shawinigan. But there was a tone, a quiver, an emotional honesty to his speech that made me cry my eyes out. I had felt detached, maybe through shock and disbelief the first few days after 9/11, but Chretien in his broken English, was able to articulate just how I and I think most other Canadians were feeling at time, which was grief, fatigue and love for our friends, cousins, and neighbours in the United States.
I will forever be left with the why, and the how? There are aspects to the story of 9/11 that like the death of JFK will never seem truly factual. There are holes in this tragic story, that might never be honestly filled. But is that the point? Not on this day, this day is one for reflection, one to grieve those that were pointlessly lost. A day to say I love New York. A day not to bitch about the ills of American politics. A day to act like good neighbours. God Bless America.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
A Tired, Quick Update
Zoey decided that last night was gonna be the night to be a menace. She allowed her mom and her dad, oh, about 2 hours sleep. I knew such nights were coming, yes she is perfect, but she is still a newborn, and newborns sometimes cry throughout the night. I think, to test the meddle of their parents. A test of endurance. Just another parenting challenge. Oi, being the grown up sucks balls sometimes.
Guess what? Today was also the first day of school for the older two. Mommy and daddy running on fumes, trying to get their kids fed, and educated, it's hard work, damned hard work sometimes. Oh, and is it just me, or is the herding together of a whole bunch of preteens into a small confined space scary as hell? God bless you teachers, you are a special and brave lot.
Guess what? Today was also the first day of school for the older two. Mommy and daddy running on fumes, trying to get their kids fed, and educated, it's hard work, damned hard work sometimes. Oh, and is it just me, or is the herding together of a whole bunch of preteens into a small confined space scary as hell? God bless you teachers, you are a special and brave lot.
Monday, September 7, 2009
To rant randomely
A little something I wrote earlier this summer. My mood tonight is very similar. Enjoy, or not.
To prattle away with words. Spin them around, throw them out there, no matter their cause or effect.
What's on my mind? Cigarettes, pretty much every waking second, yes, oh and forget about sleeping, I roll, I scratch, I ache. It sucks.
Anything else? Whiny children driving me a bit daft. No escape.
Bored of social media. A lot of talk about not a much at all.
Fuck these cravings, fuck this mood I am in. Yes if I were to give in, just a quick fag, whammo, improved mood. But, no, fight it off. Be strong.
Drink coffee, type through it. Focus? Not with how this feels. A type and run. Poof!
There dear old blog. A random rant, spurred on by want for smoke, for want of relief. More, later, maybe.
To prattle away with words. Spin them around, throw them out there, no matter their cause or effect.
What's on my mind? Cigarettes, pretty much every waking second, yes, oh and forget about sleeping, I roll, I scratch, I ache. It sucks.
Anything else? Whiny children driving me a bit daft. No escape.
Bored of social media. A lot of talk about not a much at all.
Fuck these cravings, fuck this mood I am in. Yes if I were to give in, just a quick fag, whammo, improved mood. But, no, fight it off. Be strong.
Drink coffee, type through it. Focus? Not with how this feels. A type and run. Poof!
There dear old blog. A random rant, spurred on by want for smoke, for want of relief. More, later, maybe.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
There's no place like home (The birth story of Zoey Eliza Lane)
The story of Zoey's birth from mom's perspective. Read it here, with pictures and everything: (link)
I've always felt like Dorothy's statement in The Wizard of Oz is a wonderful way to describe birth: "There's no place like home." Last year I came to realize that the story could also illustrate our fears about birth, our reliance on birth professionals and experts, and how hard it can be to see our own strength and power.
Dorothy found herself in a scary, wonderful, unfamiliar place and desperately wanted to find her way home. Along the way, she learned a lot about love, courage and smarts. When she finally reached the Wizard of Oz, Dorothy did not find the saviour she expected. Indeed, her most revered Wizard was as human and unsure as she was, with no practical way to get her home. When all hope was lost, the Good Witch came along and told Dorothy a message she'd been unwilling and too impatient to hear when she first arrived in Oz: Dorothy could get home, on her own, at any time. She had the ability and the tools to do it all along! With this message came such a sweet relief, and although grateful for all she'd learned about herself along the way, Dorothy quickly tapped her heels and stated, "There's no place like home."
And so it is with birth. For me, the past decade has been a journey that has led to my current state of trust in my body, my babies and the birth process itself. As I type this, Zoey is curled up sleeping on her daddy's chest. Her birth was exactly as the "Good Witch", Mother Earth, or simply the Goddess told me it could be over ten years ago as I was pregnant with my first child: natural, unhindered by observers, all done under my own power. I heard the message but at the time needed a journey to give me the confidence I needed to have the birth I wanted.
Last Friday our sweet Zoey was born, in a whirlwind of bliss and pain and magic. I'd been walking around anxiously awaiting her for weeks, even though I was sure of my dates and kept telling myself and others that there was a possibility I'd be overdue as in my last pregnancy. At about 35 weeks I got an overwhelming urge to clean my house, and the floors got fastidiously scrubbed, baby clothes were washed, and so on. At about the same time I realized that my brain was too fuzzy to work, and made sure I'd be on maternity leave at 36 weeks. I got a local henna artist to "tattoo" my belly with a goddess-like figure. I still have the tan with the white outline of where she was! We went away on vacation to Nova Scotia for a week and I got to sit in the sun on my beloved South Shore beaches, visit with my wonderful Grammie and hang out with Joe's family. We returned home to hot, humid weather and waited. I'd been having prelabour contractions for weeks, but they never got into any kind of rhythm. I was having a hard time getting my big self up from low places and my feet were swollen. Each day I said I was ready to have this baby.
Two days past my due date, my dad was visiting us. I suggested we all go to King's Landing, an historical settlement with costumed characters, houses, mills and farms dating from 1700-1900. Four hours later, my feet throbbing but pleased with the fun day, we ate our picnic lunch and headed out. My dad left town the next morning, which was Thursday, and that evening I went out for a long walk after dark on the premise that I needed ice cream. When I got home I popped in a movie and after a while it hit me: I was in labour. Contractions were coming with some kind of regularity and they just felt different. Off to bed I took myself at 1 am Friday morning, pleased that I'd be seeing my baby within the next couple of days.
Friday morning I was up at 7 am, before the rest of the house. I wasn't horribly hungry but managed to eat something (only a week later details are blurry) and played online for a couple of hours, looking at birth stories and my favourite birth practitioner's blog (I think I read every post there!). Later I picked up a book but I couldn't get my brain to focus on anything; I was too excited and already starting to stray into "birthland". I had some snuggles with my six year old on the couch and put in a movie to keep him occupied. Then I said good morning to my ten year old who was blissfully stretched out in her bed, enjoying her last days of summer vacation. At about 9:30 am I went out to pick up my brother and drive him to work as I'd promised the day before; I didn't yet want to wake up Joe or my mom (she lives in the apartment upstairs) because I just wasn't ready to share my sweet little secret yet. Sitting in the car wasn't the most comfortable thing in the world, but that only got me more excited that baby would be here sooner rather than later.
I think that Joe woke up sometime after 10 am. Once he started coffee I don't think I gave him a chance to sit down before I said, "We're going to have this baby sometime in the next 24 hours. We need to clean up the house!" I'm sure he did 75% or more of the work, because I'd do a few things then sit down, or just keep pacing. I timed contractions for a little while and found them to be 8-11 minutes apart, and made sure the few birth items we "needed" were out and ready. I had cord clamps even though we planned on cutting the cord about an hour after the birth, chux pads, towels and clothes for baby, a fetoscope, some Shepherd's Purse tincture, a vinyl, flannel-backed table cloth and peroxide for cleanup.
The rest of the day is a bit of a blur to me. Joe took the kids out to play with friends in the neighbourhood and went to the grocery store to pick up some supplies. When the kids returned, my mom took them upstairs to watch TV and got them ready for a sleepover. I had been honest with my mom about my plans to have an unassisted birth unless I felt I needed to call a midwife for assistance or go to the hospital. On many occasions she had stated her fears about the birth and we had to respectfully agree to disagree, so it was very heartwarming to see her step in and help with the kids when I needed her to. At this point I don't think she realized how soon Zoey would come; she was cooking a roast beef dinner for the whole family and planning to head out of town in the morning. At about 4:30 pm she came downstairs and jokingly asked me, "Why don't you just go to the hospital?" I was in the middle of a contraction at the time and I responded, "Because I'll tell them to put in a fucking epidural!" Mom looked surprised by my response and said, "But you didn't need one with the other two!" to which I replied, "Yeah, and it hurt just as bad- I don't think natural birth is easy, I just don't want drugs!"
For the next hours I just kept moving. Contractions were getting stronger and closer together. I'd be pacing the floor, then one would hit and I'd look at Joe, say, "Ow!!" and try rocking my pelvis and breathing. I got him to put counter pressure on my back for a couple of contractions but as much as that helped, I found it too hard to make sure I was near him and in position each time one hit. He needed to find something other than cleaning house and staying near me to keep him busy, so he started cooking dinner.
A few times during the day, curious, I tried to check and see how dilated I was, but I couldn't reach my cervix. Sometime around 5 pm I finally could reach the front of my cervix and feel a strong bag of waters bulging with a hard little head above it. It was incredibly cool to feel the edges of my own stretchy cervix and I decided I was 4 to 6 centimeters dilated. This gave my morale a good little boost.
I got in the shower for a bit; I'd been too blah for the last weeks of my pregnancy to pick up the birth pool I was borrowing from a friend who lives about an hour away. I was in a lot of pain but when I thought about the birth pool I didn't regret its absence because I remembered that my big jacuzzi tub hadn't helped much in my second labour. After the shower I started a routine: I'd walk around the kitchen and bedroom for half a minute or so and then I'd feel another contraction coming. I'd get into the bathroom as quickly as I could and sit on the toilet, the only place I could bear the sensations(okay, the pain!) I was feeling. I'd be moaning in the dark, candle-lit bathroom and then when the contraction was coming down I'd get up again and pace. I never got into a "zen" place with this birth. Instead, I felt like I was surviving each contraction. At one point I said to Joe, "I must be a sadist to be a doula!"
Although I didn't realize it, Zoey was almost ready to join us. I was getting to the point where I was starting to push with contractions, and a my water broke with only a small gush of amniotic fluid(actually I was on the toilet and could hear it spray out). Time passed, and at a certain point I got a bit panicky and felt claustrophobic in the bathroom. I walked out into the bedroom and told Joe that I needed him to be with me. He'd had the supper on "low" for a while, keeping himself busy adding spices and stirring pots. All of a sudden, I felt hot, nauseated and like I couldn't breathe, and I demanded that he turn off the food and "get rid of the smell" (he turned on a fan in the bedroom). I also wanted all lights out, doors locked and windows closed, and he dutifully ran around to get this done. I am so impressed remembering his demeanor all day. He was just calmly and quietly going about his business, letting me do my thing and not showing any fear at all- quite the accomplishment considering this was his first baby, his first birth, and we had no outside help. He had this amazing faith in my body and nature and, like me, wanted to greet our little one on his own terms.
I tried pushing for a few contractions on my hands and knees. Then I tried standing for a few. No luck. I was not enjoying pushing as it didn't seem the contractions were any easier, at any rate, I felt like it was getting worse. Joe stood up to check something in the kitchen and I wailed, "You can't leave me! You have to stay right here!" I was squeezing his hand really tightly with every push, but he never complained. I remember saying variations of "I don't want to do this/ God I wish I didn't have to do this/ Fuck this is hard/ But I know I have to do it" in between contractions, all the while thinking, "I will never do this again!"
I wanted my baby out but being upright wasn't doing the trick, in fact it felt like it was putting too much pressure on my back and hips and hurt like hell. I mumbled something like, "This isn't working" and crawled up into the bed. Half sitting up, half lying on one side, I started pushing hard and hollering (I don't think the sound was all that human). A couple of pushes later, I felt my baby moving down toward the outside world. I reached down and could feel a hard little head just a couple of centimeters inside of me; I got excited and grabbed Joe's hand to feel it too. Another push and the burning started; her head eased out as I struggled to relax and go as gently as possible although my body was pushing like crazy.
This is where the magic started...
This was so hard but I was elated as I rubbed her hard, round, seemingly HUGE head. I've never caressed my babies as they've come into this world and here I was feeling a wrinkled little ear and wet hair on this little one. Joe was crouched, watching her, saying hello and gently touching her head and ear along with me. I'm glad he could see her, because I couldn't- my belly was in the way! Then I looked down at Joe and said, "Ok, don't touch!" because I mistook her wriggling as him manipulating/"delivering" her, and I was afraid I'd tear. He told me later how amazing it was to see her head rotate and her wriggle each shoulder out, "I wasn't worried about her- I could see how strong she was." As she was sliding out I said, "Don't let the baby fall off the bed!" because I didn't think I could reach her and she slid out in a huge gush of water(it flooded the bed and splashed all over Joe!). Joe caught her easily and a second later our baby was on my chest.
We watched in awe as she made a couple of little squawking noises...then promptly fell asleep. I was taken aback for a second and looked at her with concern, but her breathing was good and she had good muscle tone. Our little one was simply tired with all the work of the day! The room was warm so we didn't rush those first few minutes, we just sat there and hugged and stared and rubbed her back and head. Joe got up to get us something warm and to get the very wet bedding out from under me, replacing it with a our vinyl tablecloth, the fabric side up under me. I cradled the baby and looked to see if we had our boy or girl, then showed Joe and said, "You got your Zoey!"
Zoey was born at 7:50 pm. We all spent the next hour in near silence, eating the (reheated!) supper Joe had made: chicken and this amazing chickpea and veggie side dish he invented while puttering as I laboured. I took some Tylenol to dull the afterpains and from time to time reached down to feel my stomach and make sure my uterus was nice and hard and shrinking. I didn't want any complications to mar our perfect birth. We all snuggled and stared and nursed, waiting for her placenta. It was really important to me that we get this third stage over with safely before we started calling people.
Shortly after 9 pm, I was getting tired of waiting, and figured it would be a good idea to get up and try to go pee anyways. So off we waddled to the bathroom. I did have a small gush of blood on the toilet (yay! this meant my placenta was ready!) but didn't have any urges to push. I thought about using cord traction but I was worried I might be pulling on a placenta that wasn't fully "off" of the uterus, so instead I followed the cord with my fingers up inside me...found my lovely cervix again, still soft and stretchy around the edges and there was my placenta sitting right there. Now that I could visualize it I sat on the edge of the toilet, held a basin under me and gave a hard PUSH! Easy as that. Joe came in the bathroom and clamped and cut her cord (we didn't really need the clamp as her cord had stopped pulsing a while before this). Then daddy snuggled her in a towel while I had a shower and wiped down the bathroom. Ten or so minutes later, dressed in comfy pj's, we got my mom and the kids down for introductions.
We've been in bliss ever since! The next day we weighed and measured her and she was 8 lbs 2 oz and 20 3/4 inches long. Three days later I took her to the hospital to have her newborn metabolic screening done and had the neonatologist do a quick exam on her. We also needed help with nursing as Zoey likes to suck her tongue up to the top of her mouth, but that is fodder for another post. We've been taking it easy, not venturing far from home, getting to know each other. This little gal is just perfect in every way! Her daddy deserves another mention here because he is over the moon and is keeping our household running while I rest and nurse pretty much constantly.
What we keep saying is how natural and right this birth felt. Yes, it hurt like hell- no orgasmic birth for me- but I am already saying I'd do it again, and it's the trade-off: no drugs=energetic blissed-out mama after birth. We really weren't scared, in fact, we went into it with a lot of confidence and excitement. We took on a huge amount of personal responsibility for this birth yet it didn't seem like a burden. If anything, we felt strong and empowered for doing so. My mom kept asking me if I was trying to prove something by having Zoey unattended at home, and the honest answer is no. I wanted to let my body do its job without influence or interference. We got that plus a lot of magic. For our family, there truly is no place like home.
I've always felt like Dorothy's statement in The Wizard of Oz is a wonderful way to describe birth: "There's no place like home." Last year I came to realize that the story could also illustrate our fears about birth, our reliance on birth professionals and experts, and how hard it can be to see our own strength and power.
Dorothy found herself in a scary, wonderful, unfamiliar place and desperately wanted to find her way home. Along the way, she learned a lot about love, courage and smarts. When she finally reached the Wizard of Oz, Dorothy did not find the saviour she expected. Indeed, her most revered Wizard was as human and unsure as she was, with no practical way to get her home. When all hope was lost, the Good Witch came along and told Dorothy a message she'd been unwilling and too impatient to hear when she first arrived in Oz: Dorothy could get home, on her own, at any time. She had the ability and the tools to do it all along! With this message came such a sweet relief, and although grateful for all she'd learned about herself along the way, Dorothy quickly tapped her heels and stated, "There's no place like home."
And so it is with birth. For me, the past decade has been a journey that has led to my current state of trust in my body, my babies and the birth process itself. As I type this, Zoey is curled up sleeping on her daddy's chest. Her birth was exactly as the "Good Witch", Mother Earth, or simply the Goddess told me it could be over ten years ago as I was pregnant with my first child: natural, unhindered by observers, all done under my own power. I heard the message but at the time needed a journey to give me the confidence I needed to have the birth I wanted.
Last Friday our sweet Zoey was born, in a whirlwind of bliss and pain and magic. I'd been walking around anxiously awaiting her for weeks, even though I was sure of my dates and kept telling myself and others that there was a possibility I'd be overdue as in my last pregnancy. At about 35 weeks I got an overwhelming urge to clean my house, and the floors got fastidiously scrubbed, baby clothes were washed, and so on. At about the same time I realized that my brain was too fuzzy to work, and made sure I'd be on maternity leave at 36 weeks. I got a local henna artist to "tattoo" my belly with a goddess-like figure. I still have the tan with the white outline of where she was! We went away on vacation to Nova Scotia for a week and I got to sit in the sun on my beloved South Shore beaches, visit with my wonderful Grammie and hang out with Joe's family. We returned home to hot, humid weather and waited. I'd been having prelabour contractions for weeks, but they never got into any kind of rhythm. I was having a hard time getting my big self up from low places and my feet were swollen. Each day I said I was ready to have this baby.
Two days past my due date, my dad was visiting us. I suggested we all go to King's Landing, an historical settlement with costumed characters, houses, mills and farms dating from 1700-1900. Four hours later, my feet throbbing but pleased with the fun day, we ate our picnic lunch and headed out. My dad left town the next morning, which was Thursday, and that evening I went out for a long walk after dark on the premise that I needed ice cream. When I got home I popped in a movie and after a while it hit me: I was in labour. Contractions were coming with some kind of regularity and they just felt different. Off to bed I took myself at 1 am Friday morning, pleased that I'd be seeing my baby within the next couple of days.
Friday morning I was up at 7 am, before the rest of the house. I wasn't horribly hungry but managed to eat something (only a week later details are blurry) and played online for a couple of hours, looking at birth stories and my favourite birth practitioner's blog (I think I read every post there!). Later I picked up a book but I couldn't get my brain to focus on anything; I was too excited and already starting to stray into "birthland". I had some snuggles with my six year old on the couch and put in a movie to keep him occupied. Then I said good morning to my ten year old who was blissfully stretched out in her bed, enjoying her last days of summer vacation. At about 9:30 am I went out to pick up my brother and drive him to work as I'd promised the day before; I didn't yet want to wake up Joe or my mom (she lives in the apartment upstairs) because I just wasn't ready to share my sweet little secret yet. Sitting in the car wasn't the most comfortable thing in the world, but that only got me more excited that baby would be here sooner rather than later.
I think that Joe woke up sometime after 10 am. Once he started coffee I don't think I gave him a chance to sit down before I said, "We're going to have this baby sometime in the next 24 hours. We need to clean up the house!" I'm sure he did 75% or more of the work, because I'd do a few things then sit down, or just keep pacing. I timed contractions for a little while and found them to be 8-11 minutes apart, and made sure the few birth items we "needed" were out and ready. I had cord clamps even though we planned on cutting the cord about an hour after the birth, chux pads, towels and clothes for baby, a fetoscope, some Shepherd's Purse tincture, a vinyl, flannel-backed table cloth and peroxide for cleanup.
The rest of the day is a bit of a blur to me. Joe took the kids out to play with friends in the neighbourhood and went to the grocery store to pick up some supplies. When the kids returned, my mom took them upstairs to watch TV and got them ready for a sleepover. I had been honest with my mom about my plans to have an unassisted birth unless I felt I needed to call a midwife for assistance or go to the hospital. On many occasions she had stated her fears about the birth and we had to respectfully agree to disagree, so it was very heartwarming to see her step in and help with the kids when I needed her to. At this point I don't think she realized how soon Zoey would come; she was cooking a roast beef dinner for the whole family and planning to head out of town in the morning. At about 4:30 pm she came downstairs and jokingly asked me, "Why don't you just go to the hospital?" I was in the middle of a contraction at the time and I responded, "Because I'll tell them to put in a fucking epidural!" Mom looked surprised by my response and said, "But you didn't need one with the other two!" to which I replied, "Yeah, and it hurt just as bad- I don't think natural birth is easy, I just don't want drugs!"
For the next hours I just kept moving. Contractions were getting stronger and closer together. I'd be pacing the floor, then one would hit and I'd look at Joe, say, "Ow!!" and try rocking my pelvis and breathing. I got him to put counter pressure on my back for a couple of contractions but as much as that helped, I found it too hard to make sure I was near him and in position each time one hit. He needed to find something other than cleaning house and staying near me to keep him busy, so he started cooking dinner.
A few times during the day, curious, I tried to check and see how dilated I was, but I couldn't reach my cervix. Sometime around 5 pm I finally could reach the front of my cervix and feel a strong bag of waters bulging with a hard little head above it. It was incredibly cool to feel the edges of my own stretchy cervix and I decided I was 4 to 6 centimeters dilated. This gave my morale a good little boost.
I got in the shower for a bit; I'd been too blah for the last weeks of my pregnancy to pick up the birth pool I was borrowing from a friend who lives about an hour away. I was in a lot of pain but when I thought about the birth pool I didn't regret its absence because I remembered that my big jacuzzi tub hadn't helped much in my second labour. After the shower I started a routine: I'd walk around the kitchen and bedroom for half a minute or so and then I'd feel another contraction coming. I'd get into the bathroom as quickly as I could and sit on the toilet, the only place I could bear the sensations(okay, the pain!) I was feeling. I'd be moaning in the dark, candle-lit bathroom and then when the contraction was coming down I'd get up again and pace. I never got into a "zen" place with this birth. Instead, I felt like I was surviving each contraction. At one point I said to Joe, "I must be a sadist to be a doula!"
Although I didn't realize it, Zoey was almost ready to join us. I was getting to the point where I was starting to push with contractions, and a my water broke with only a small gush of amniotic fluid(actually I was on the toilet and could hear it spray out). Time passed, and at a certain point I got a bit panicky and felt claustrophobic in the bathroom. I walked out into the bedroom and told Joe that I needed him to be with me. He'd had the supper on "low" for a while, keeping himself busy adding spices and stirring pots. All of a sudden, I felt hot, nauseated and like I couldn't breathe, and I demanded that he turn off the food and "get rid of the smell" (he turned on a fan in the bedroom). I also wanted all lights out, doors locked and windows closed, and he dutifully ran around to get this done. I am so impressed remembering his demeanor all day. He was just calmly and quietly going about his business, letting me do my thing and not showing any fear at all- quite the accomplishment considering this was his first baby, his first birth, and we had no outside help. He had this amazing faith in my body and nature and, like me, wanted to greet our little one on his own terms.
I tried pushing for a few contractions on my hands and knees. Then I tried standing for a few. No luck. I was not enjoying pushing as it didn't seem the contractions were any easier, at any rate, I felt like it was getting worse. Joe stood up to check something in the kitchen and I wailed, "You can't leave me! You have to stay right here!" I was squeezing his hand really tightly with every push, but he never complained. I remember saying variations of "I don't want to do this/ God I wish I didn't have to do this/ Fuck this is hard/ But I know I have to do it" in between contractions, all the while thinking, "I will never do this again!"
I wanted my baby out but being upright wasn't doing the trick, in fact it felt like it was putting too much pressure on my back and hips and hurt like hell. I mumbled something like, "This isn't working" and crawled up into the bed. Half sitting up, half lying on one side, I started pushing hard and hollering (I don't think the sound was all that human). A couple of pushes later, I felt my baby moving down toward the outside world. I reached down and could feel a hard little head just a couple of centimeters inside of me; I got excited and grabbed Joe's hand to feel it too. Another push and the burning started; her head eased out as I struggled to relax and go as gently as possible although my body was pushing like crazy.
This is where the magic started...
This was so hard but I was elated as I rubbed her hard, round, seemingly HUGE head. I've never caressed my babies as they've come into this world and here I was feeling a wrinkled little ear and wet hair on this little one. Joe was crouched, watching her, saying hello and gently touching her head and ear along with me. I'm glad he could see her, because I couldn't- my belly was in the way! Then I looked down at Joe and said, "Ok, don't touch!" because I mistook her wriggling as him manipulating/"delivering" her, and I was afraid I'd tear. He told me later how amazing it was to see her head rotate and her wriggle each shoulder out, "I wasn't worried about her- I could see how strong she was." As she was sliding out I said, "Don't let the baby fall off the bed!" because I didn't think I could reach her and she slid out in a huge gush of water(it flooded the bed and splashed all over Joe!). Joe caught her easily and a second later our baby was on my chest.
We watched in awe as she made a couple of little squawking noises...then promptly fell asleep. I was taken aback for a second and looked at her with concern, but her breathing was good and she had good muscle tone. Our little one was simply tired with all the work of the day! The room was warm so we didn't rush those first few minutes, we just sat there and hugged and stared and rubbed her back and head. Joe got up to get us something warm and to get the very wet bedding out from under me, replacing it with a our vinyl tablecloth, the fabric side up under me. I cradled the baby and looked to see if we had our boy or girl, then showed Joe and said, "You got your Zoey!"
Zoey was born at 7:50 pm. We all spent the next hour in near silence, eating the (reheated!) supper Joe had made: chicken and this amazing chickpea and veggie side dish he invented while puttering as I laboured. I took some Tylenol to dull the afterpains and from time to time reached down to feel my stomach and make sure my uterus was nice and hard and shrinking. I didn't want any complications to mar our perfect birth. We all snuggled and stared and nursed, waiting for her placenta. It was really important to me that we get this third stage over with safely before we started calling people.
Shortly after 9 pm, I was getting tired of waiting, and figured it would be a good idea to get up and try to go pee anyways. So off we waddled to the bathroom. I did have a small gush of blood on the toilet (yay! this meant my placenta was ready!) but didn't have any urges to push. I thought about using cord traction but I was worried I might be pulling on a placenta that wasn't fully "off" of the uterus, so instead I followed the cord with my fingers up inside me...found my lovely cervix again, still soft and stretchy around the edges and there was my placenta sitting right there. Now that I could visualize it I sat on the edge of the toilet, held a basin under me and gave a hard PUSH! Easy as that. Joe came in the bathroom and clamped and cut her cord (we didn't really need the clamp as her cord had stopped pulsing a while before this). Then daddy snuggled her in a towel while I had a shower and wiped down the bathroom. Ten or so minutes later, dressed in comfy pj's, we got my mom and the kids down for introductions.
We've been in bliss ever since! The next day we weighed and measured her and she was 8 lbs 2 oz and 20 3/4 inches long. Three days later I took her to the hospital to have her newborn metabolic screening done and had the neonatologist do a quick exam on her. We also needed help with nursing as Zoey likes to suck her tongue up to the top of her mouth, but that is fodder for another post. We've been taking it easy, not venturing far from home, getting to know each other. This little gal is just perfect in every way! Her daddy deserves another mention here because he is over the moon and is keeping our household running while I rest and nurse pretty much constantly.
What we keep saying is how natural and right this birth felt. Yes, it hurt like hell- no orgasmic birth for me- but I am already saying I'd do it again, and it's the trade-off: no drugs=energetic blissed-out mama after birth. We really weren't scared, in fact, we went into it with a lot of confidence and excitement. We took on a huge amount of personal responsibility for this birth yet it didn't seem like a burden. If anything, we felt strong and empowered for doing so. My mom kept asking me if I was trying to prove something by having Zoey unattended at home, and the honest answer is no. I wanted to let my body do its job without influence or interference. We got that plus a lot of magic. For our family, there truly is no place like home.
So much to do before I have a single cohesive piece of writing....
My mad friend Matt opining away at this or that, hell who am I to know what he is thinking??
~J
Don't know if you wanna post this, but it's both a teaser for one of my favorite pieces I've never published, and also a situation most of us writers have found ourselves in...and i think the public ought to know one of the gross professional horrors we can find ourselves in as journalists. To me, looking around at a seemingly unusable and overwhelming amount of hand-written stories piled up everywhere i look...it's as devastating and dangerous a moment as those guys on the reality TV logging shows face in a season finale. The need for split second reflexes, the fear of getting the job done right... It isn't all sipping fucking cocoa, happily tapping out a great new piece of writing to post; there is peril, danger, and dark forces.
At this point i think the email is longer than the "thing" i'm giving you to post, so you may as well put them together and hope they form one hell of a bastard child...
So much to do before I have a single cohesive peice of writing....
As I sit here on the 5th night of my week long vacation to my couch, I kinda get the shivers trying to conceptualize the girth of actual "work" that I need to do in terms of stringing together the fragments of various stories and other random scriptures I've given back alley births to on busses and el-trains all across Chicago. It makes me proud to see the actual volume of work I have produced...but shit, what good does it do stacked up on legal pads and composition notebooks all around my apartment? Half of me thinks that some of my work is relatively solid--or atleast highly entertaining to the like minded...and the other half of me wants to use ther shit to start a lovely bonfire--possibly on the roof of my building in some sort of fire-proof enclosure...which in actuality sounds harder than it did when i spit the idea out. Adderol removes the ability to think before you speak, so scratch the fire. MUST ORGANIZE!! I figure I can get my story, "Ill Advised Was Indeed an Understatement" up soon...which is actually more of the polished type of product I could safely publish online at the "NATIONAL AFFAIRS DESK, PRESS DIVISION", and would finally be able to get the ball rolling. That is, of course, as long as the people involved in that particular true story about an incident at my old job--a 2000 employee, power-house of an international consulting firm, don't find it first and sue the dog shit out of me--or worse-- for defamation of character...but hey, it's only slander or libel if said indcidents were, in fact lies, and they most definately were not. Come back soon to check it out.....more to come.
---Matt Byron
~J
Don't know if you wanna post this, but it's both a teaser for one of my favorite pieces I've never published, and also a situation most of us writers have found ourselves in...and i think the public ought to know one of the gross professional horrors we can find ourselves in as journalists. To me, looking around at a seemingly unusable and overwhelming amount of hand-written stories piled up everywhere i look...it's as devastating and dangerous a moment as those guys on the reality TV logging shows face in a season finale. The need for split second reflexes, the fear of getting the job done right... It isn't all sipping fucking cocoa, happily tapping out a great new piece of writing to post; there is peril, danger, and dark forces.
At this point i think the email is longer than the "thing" i'm giving you to post, so you may as well put them together and hope they form one hell of a bastard child...
So much to do before I have a single cohesive peice of writing....
As I sit here on the 5th night of my week long vacation to my couch, I kinda get the shivers trying to conceptualize the girth of actual "work" that I need to do in terms of stringing together the fragments of various stories and other random scriptures I've given back alley births to on busses and el-trains all across Chicago. It makes me proud to see the actual volume of work I have produced...but shit, what good does it do stacked up on legal pads and composition notebooks all around my apartment? Half of me thinks that some of my work is relatively solid--or atleast highly entertaining to the like minded...and the other half of me wants to use ther shit to start a lovely bonfire--possibly on the roof of my building in some sort of fire-proof enclosure...which in actuality sounds harder than it did when i spit the idea out. Adderol removes the ability to think before you speak, so scratch the fire. MUST ORGANIZE!! I figure I can get my story, "Ill Advised Was Indeed an Understatement" up soon...which is actually more of the polished type of product I could safely publish online at the "NATIONAL AFFAIRS DESK, PRESS DIVISION", and would finally be able to get the ball rolling. That is, of course, as long as the people involved in that particular true story about an incident at my old job--a 2000 employee, power-house of an international consulting firm, don't find it first and sue the dog shit out of me--or worse-- for defamation of character...but hey, it's only slander or libel if said indcidents were, in fact lies, and they most definately were not. Come back soon to check it out.....more to come.
---Matt Byron
#11 "ILL-Advised was Indeed an Understatement"
As my then- typical morning anxiety dictated I issued myself 20mg of Valium along with my Starbuck's coffee…two great staples of the modern suburban office worker. I settle in for what is already appearing to be a long day in the making before the sun has even gotten out of bed. It was not yet even 6am and I had already fielded 29 or 30 calls from clients and sales reps.
The office Garrett and I shared was small and devoid of any natural light what so ever. We sometimes put live plants in our office-which would always die quickly- as to suggest to our superiors the effect our cave-like office had on living things. One time we even barricaded the entrance to our office with bright yellow hazard tape. By these things they were not entertained. As the icing on the cake we always made sure the general ambiance of our department was more that of a college dorm room than the office of a couple of young, white-collar promotes. Over the months it became a true spectacle: 1500 watt stereo system (eventually including a 400 watt 'KICKER' sub-woofer from Garrett's Lexus), a few movie posters including a rare, life-sized "The Godfather" original print, a large Chivas Regal flag (which we kept forever flowing using a desk fan underneath to simulate a windy day), and ornate ash trays. Also over my desk hung a mounted elk head stolen from a hunting lodge we stayed at on a weekend excursion. Lots of candles. Memos, comic strips, photos, post-its, flyers, articles and anything else of general interest were taped, tacked, stapled, and hung up literally every where. It actually became hazardous. My secretary once got a nasty paper cut from a business card I had proudly super glued to the doorknob. Garrett had to get a tetanus shot and 9 stitches after he tried to move a chair that had shit stapled all into the wooden parts. As an unseen staple stabbed deep into the flesh under his finger nail, he dropped the chair--nearly ripping off the whole tip of his finger and sending a spritz of warm, red blood to splatter across the wall. And he always refused the mess being cleaned up. He said the amount of blood, sweat, and tears we put into things measured their greatness. Citing the arterial- style spray over his desk, he claimed to have the greatest office at Control Head Quarters. And he was right on.
Fourteen hours of a continually ringing phone might have driven us insane, but luckily Garrett was able to run our phone lines through his computer-allowing replacement of the standard ringer with a digital sample of mooing cows. To compound this audio-assault, we made the decision to play "House of the Rising Sun" on repeat at almost full volume for the first half hour of every morning-making serious phone calls nearly impossible to execute. And this, of course, was by our design: we needed time to get going before getting serious.
7:38am—MOOOOOOO! I run over to my desk to see who's calling. The caller ID display read Olga Tachinaya- the assistant director of human resources… An important and fearsome administrator. But why …....M O O O O O O O !!!...is Human Resources calling so early? And Like a 1950's grade-school classroom fallout drill, Garrett grabbed his hat and quickly stuffed himself underneath his desk.
"IM NOT HERE!" he yelled franticly.
...MOOOOOOOOOO! Again blasted out across the office. I regained composure and cautiously picked up the receiver. I cleared my throat.
"Compliance Department."
"Ben?"
"Yes, Ben Franklin here."
Her voice was shaking-
"You know who this is?"
"Umm….ya…what's up?"
"Are you guys alone in there right now?"
"Ya-why?"
"I'm gonna stop by…I need your guys' help."
"Uhh….good-fine…ok. See you in a few minutes."
I had a burning curiosity.
***If you are not Adam Dolin or another part time editor of mine and can guess what happens I will send you $200. No shit. And the rest of the story will be up within the week. Let me know what you think. ---MB
The office Garrett and I shared was small and devoid of any natural light what so ever. We sometimes put live plants in our office-which would always die quickly- as to suggest to our superiors the effect our cave-like office had on living things. One time we even barricaded the entrance to our office with bright yellow hazard tape. By these things they were not entertained. As the icing on the cake we always made sure the general ambiance of our department was more that of a college dorm room than the office of a couple of young, white-collar promotes. Over the months it became a true spectacle: 1500 watt stereo system (eventually including a 400 watt 'KICKER' sub-woofer from Garrett's Lexus), a few movie posters including a rare, life-sized "The Godfather" original print, a large Chivas Regal flag (which we kept forever flowing using a desk fan underneath to simulate a windy day), and ornate ash trays. Also over my desk hung a mounted elk head stolen from a hunting lodge we stayed at on a weekend excursion. Lots of candles. Memos, comic strips, photos, post-its, flyers, articles and anything else of general interest were taped, tacked, stapled, and hung up literally every where. It actually became hazardous. My secretary once got a nasty paper cut from a business card I had proudly super glued to the doorknob. Garrett had to get a tetanus shot and 9 stitches after he tried to move a chair that had shit stapled all into the wooden parts. As an unseen staple stabbed deep into the flesh under his finger nail, he dropped the chair--nearly ripping off the whole tip of his finger and sending a spritz of warm, red blood to splatter across the wall. And he always refused the mess being cleaned up. He said the amount of blood, sweat, and tears we put into things measured their greatness. Citing the arterial- style spray over his desk, he claimed to have the greatest office at Control Head Quarters. And he was right on.
Fourteen hours of a continually ringing phone might have driven us insane, but luckily Garrett was able to run our phone lines through his computer-allowing replacement of the standard ringer with a digital sample of mooing cows. To compound this audio-assault, we made the decision to play "House of the Rising Sun" on repeat at almost full volume for the first half hour of every morning-making serious phone calls nearly impossible to execute. And this, of course, was by our design: we needed time to get going before getting serious.
7:38am—MOOOOOOO! I run over to my desk to see who's calling. The caller ID display read Olga Tachinaya- the assistant director of human resources… An important and fearsome administrator. But why …....M O O O O O O O !!!...is Human Resources calling so early? And Like a 1950's grade-school classroom fallout drill, Garrett grabbed his hat and quickly stuffed himself underneath his desk.
"IM NOT HERE!" he yelled franticly.
...MOOOOOOOOOO! Again blasted out across the office. I regained composure and cautiously picked up the receiver. I cleared my throat.
"Compliance Department."
"Ben?"
"Yes, Ben Franklin here."
Her voice was shaking-
"You know who this is?"
"Umm….ya…what's up?"
"Are you guys alone in there right now?"
"Ya-why?"
"I'm gonna stop by…I need your guys' help."
"Uhh….good-fine…ok. See you in a few minutes."
I had a burning curiosity.
***If you are not Adam Dolin or another part time editor of mine and can guess what happens I will send you $200. No shit. And the rest of the story will be up within the week. Let me know what you think. ---MB
Saturday, September 5, 2009
National Affairs Desk's FRIDAY RELEASE...week ending 7/10/09
Aha, finally...FRIDAY! Almost one of every American's favorite top 10 words. And this particular Friday would be like any other but due to my own personal circumstances, having finally left the “Evil Empire”, the world's largest management consulting firm I've spent nearly a decade at, and gotten a new job—two jobs actually; also being hired on as a staff writer for a Chicago-based Internet company, I feel like this run-on sentence is worthy of introducing this..the “New” Friday...which I now dub “Friday Version2”. Reasoning behind it is that it seems absent of the gross horrors and lame fuck arounds I've grown so accustomed to on paydays from my last ten years at the firm.
As I've said before to those of you lucky enough to not have encountered it, at IPA, payday is an emotionally-chaffing, nail-biting, and typically foul-smelling wait in a line that never seems to end. That is of course, until you reach the front and one of the secretaries hands you your bi-monthly metaphoric kick to the groin—that is-- if you even dare peek at your take home before the day is over and become so utterly let-down that your production ability is effectively lobotomized.
But, no...not anymore. No more bribing secretaries with KFC lunches to give you your check early without permission from your boss so you can avoid the line. Just a regular process of passing out checks and receiving what you earned.
Oh yes. By now, some of you might be wondering, “What the hell am I reading?”. Well, for those of you who have never heard of the National Affairs Desk...let alone one of it's pearls, the Friday Release-- I'll fill ya in.
The N.A.D., or National Affairs Desk is a deep-reaching, well-armed, multi-headed beast of a publishing company headquartered out of my living room with agents and operatives world-wide. We are, at least according to Harvard School of Journalism and the late Dr. Hunter S. Thompson, “Gonzo Journalists”. The National Affairs Desk seeks to cover events from the every day to the extraordinary that touch the lives of most all Americans. And being “Gonzo” or “Journalists that will spontaneously allow the pen and ink to function as the minds eye”, we cover more than a wide range of topics from international news to small-town events to why one of our reporters' were late...or even somehow early to their day job. But late at night and in the wee-hours of the morning our agents of influence are restless. Some writers have called our style “The New Journalism”, while other say it's more old-school due to the complete lack of censorship over topics, opinions, or political correctness. We just let the shit hit the fan and put on paper what we're standing in the middle of...or knee-deep in. For fuck sakes—I wrote an “award-winning” piece on a terrible incident involving me vomiting all over a pizza delivery guy on bike...and was then given more editorial say-so because of it.
Anyways, as soon as I got the unanimous vote passed to do a “my week in hind sight” sort of thing, the FRIDAY RELEASE was born...and I've never come out of labor from birthing. The Friday Release from the N.A.D. Is my own way of giving the week a thumbs up or a middle finger. There are, not including agents of the National Affairs Desk, about 60-70 regular recipients of the release...and about 75% of 'em are still trying to figure out what if any illicit drugs could ever cause a man to sputter out this sort of gibberish and consider it any format of real reporting at all. Still, they read 'em on break, at lunch, or whenever they have a few, laugh a lot, and demand delivery every Friday. The reason for some may just to make them feel like a more normal person by comparison, but I could personally care less. Shit—I need the readership. So I do the release; either typed and shot out electronically or scribble it down on paper and either scan the pages in or hit up a Kinko's to abuse their hospitality. When those stupid bastards came up with the friendly slogan “Make Our Office Yours!”, they obviously never took into account that someone like me might show up to make good on the offer.
But to hell with explaining the logistics behind the distribution of the Friday Release—because The King of Pop, Michael Jackson, has died. And I guess that is really the only thing I've heard about this week that I remotely give a hoot in hell about. Oh ya...Sarah Palin: let Sarah Palin abruptly quit politics and become a fucking lion tamer for Barnum and Bailey for all I give a shit. Poor little Alaskan runner-up. Come to think of it, she may do well with the circus having been surrounded by far more dangerous beats of all sorts during the election campaign.
President Obama is on a world hand-shaking tour, Illinois finances are apparently are a far worse cripple than we had previously come to grip with...and I have a slight suspicion that that little, big headed, small-brained, big neck-tied Blagoyovich and his 11 year-olds hair-cut may just have left us a bigger mess than we originally figured...and poor Governor Pat Quinn looks like he's about to shit his $400 pants every time he steps up to the news conference podium and seems awfully confused.
The 4th of July was great as usual in the windy city. Utter madness across the entire North-West side and along the entire lake-front! It god-damn sounded like when the soldiers' were storming the beach at D-Day in “Saving Private Ryan”. And I may as well mention it now...but if there is one thing I have come to fully understand,—if there really are any total racial consistencies, one is certainly that Hispanics love a reason to set off a shit-load of fireworks. Truly, Hispanics will use any excuse to grill and blow shit up. Not ALL of them, of course...but at least 99.2% of them on the American continent as a National Geographic study has recently shown. I might be off by a percentage or two, but I'm sure if it comes down to it National Geographic's Legal department will surely set me straight on what exactly they published...only if computers' had white-out. Fuck.
I'm about to hop off the bus so I suppose I'll wrap up the release for now. Let me know if you want a copy dropped off, e-mailed, post-mailed, or carrier-pigeoned your way and I'll make it happen.
It gets deeper than you think...and for now it's free...Happy Friday.
--Matt Byron
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