by Ellen RM Toner
1 December 2019
There are two reasons why I write. One is that I have a
dreadful memory, and, when I have epiphanies, writing down the details of what
and why helps me make sense of them, hold on to them, and remember that I’ve made
progress. The other is that epiphanies are both vital and beautiful, two
characteristics which, I think, ask and somewhat demand to be shared. Some
revelations are private, and others are improved for passing them along.
Baby Rebecca was born in October. There are so many revelations and trials surrounding her existence and birth that I have struggled mightily with trying to make sense of it, and even
sitting down to write about has me a bit flummoxed. But, as with most things we
undertake in life, I think the time has come for me to dive in and hope that
the muddle coalesces as I go. For one thing, the rest of the house is asleep
right now, and I’m strangely awake for 4 in the morning. Seize the moment!
I have heard some women say that each of their children has taught
them a particular virtue or life lesson—patience, humility, courage—whatever it
might be, something that they were lacking. Sonya, my oldest, in the way that
her pregnancy and delivery threw me to the ground, made me realize
spectacularly how very much I am not in control of the things that matter most.
She left me flailing. Rebecca, in a strange way, has been a life preserver.
But, the thing is, you need a life preserver when you’re still at sea, and she
has kept us there still, showing us one step at a time what we are supposed to
be learning, my next building block after Sonya. Sonya says, you can’t rely on
yourself, and Rebecca says, let me show you Whom you can rely on.
After Sonya was born, Jamey and I were talking about the
fact that it was hard for both us to be working full-time, and wishing there
were some realistic way to make ends meet on one income. And so we did that
thing which you should never do, and gave God a deadline. By the end of this
year, we prayed, let something happen to let one of us stop working. By the end
of 2018….
 |
| "Something" |
A year ago this month, we were in a really bad car accident.
It was a torch that ignited a severe anxiety struggle for Jamey and put me on
medical leave for three months. As we were coming out of that “episode,” we
started looking ahead to the things we’d been discussing before being derailed,
and we drove to Worcester to meet with an adoption lawyer. And then, in the
last week of January, Jamey suddenly lost his job, which meant we lost our
health insurance, and we found out we were pregnant. And I literally sat on the
bathroom floor and cried and shook, because I was scared and overwhelmed, and
this was beyond not “the right time.”
What did pregnancy mean for us? It meant that, because of
HG, I would be physically out of commission for most of the next 9 months. It
meant battling with the insurance company (oh, wait, we didn’t have insurance!)
to get life-saving (not an exaggeration) meds partially covered, and coming up
with the money for the hefty co-pays. It meant finding full-time childcare for
Sonya, because I wouldn’t be able to take care of her. It meant telling my boss
that even though I was coming back from medical leave, I’d be MIA, yet again.
It meant that, not even a year after Sonya’s pregnancy ended, we were going
back into that dark hole.
I read somewhere that half of HG pregnancies end in
abortion. And I’ve spoken with more women than I can remember, other HG moms,
who struggled with this question, some of whom decided to keep their babies,
and some of whom were reeling after choosing not to. And I truly have so much
more sympathy than I ever thought I could for those circumstances. It’s amazing
what an unplanned pregnancy[1]
in the face of considerable illness, financial troubles and unemployment can do
for your understanding and compassion. But, at the end of the day (and the
beginning, and the middle), Rebecca existed, and she had been willed into
existence by Somebody who wanted her, given to us for safekeeping. When
someone’s life is given solely to your care and protection—that is a hefty
burden, and one that cannot rightly be refused.
The week we found out, we happened to go to a church where
we didn’t know the priest, and he got up there to give his homily, and the
first words out of his mouth were, “Every infant that exists is wanted and
planned by God.” Sometimes we get hit over the head with not very subtle
reminders because we need them. And then, a few months later, I read this verse
from Maccabees, and it became the definition I needed to understand Rebecca: I do not know how you came into being in my
womb. It was not I who gave you life and breath, nor I who set in order the
elements within you. Therefore the Creator of the world, who shaped the
beginning of man and devised the origin of all things, will in his mercy give
life and breath back to you (Mac 7:22-23). True to form, the words that
helped me most were spoken in a place of anguish; this mother speaks them as
her seven sons are being martyred before her eyes.
(Rebecca is stirring… get to a stopping point.)
So, what about that prayer that we had prayed, that deadline
we had given God? As it turned out, because we were the injured party in the
accident, it became the way that we could afford for one of us to stay home.
And though Jamey’s mental state was still off-kilter, the accident meant that
he could mostly take care of Sonya, while I did my editing job from home. And,
as it’s done these past few years, despite all our stressing, the financial
side of things fell into place. The occasional and, from our limited
understanding, random checks that would come from the car accident, helped us
keep on top of our bills. And sometimes it was a refund check from a hospital,
or a bonus month on the electrical bill, or friends sending a check in the mail
because they knew things were tight and didn’t wait to be asked (I don’t even
remember how many surprise envelopes we were given from generous friends), but
one way or the other, things kept just
working out. And, when we realized that we still needed help with Sonya because
Jamey still needed help, a friend with 10 children of her own said, hey, what’s
one more a few times a week?! And insisted that we bring Sonya to her house for
three full days each week, until we were coping better on our own. Talk about
generosity.
This all, of course, is more the circumstances surrounding
this pregnancy and birth. And while of course they are part and parcel with the
heart of the matter, they are not, well, they’re not the heart of the matter.
(Rebecca is awake. More later.)
(As in, 2 months later….)
24 January 2020
If you’ve already read what
I wrote after Sonya was born, you’ll know that her birth was traumatic for
me. My oldest sister, who is a veteran mother and laborer, told me later, “When
I came to visit, it was clear that you were very much in love with her, and
totally in shock at what had just happened.” So, that was validating, to say
the least! Naturally, then, I was not looking forward to enduring labor again.
I tried my best to avoid thinking and mentally preparing for it as long as
possible, meaning it wasn’t until the third trimester that I really let that
door open in my head.
I had to get connected with an Ob early on to manage the HG,
and it was just as well, because I was looking forward to having a hospital
birth with all the pain meds at the ready. I knew that in some ways I wouldn’t
be as comfortable as I would be at home, but I really needed to avoid going
back to that same “place” I’d been with Sonya; it had been hellish and
awful and I couldn’t bear the thought of being asked to survive it again.
Rebecca was due in the middle of the two busiest months that our midwife has
ever had (she’s been delivering babies for I think about 35 years) and 5 days
before a huge fundraising dinner that our doula was in charge of planning (Abby
Johnson was speaking, 600+ people were coming), so neither of them was
available for a homebirth anyway.
Okay, so, those care providers weren’t an option for me. Out
of my hands. Out of my control.
At 22 weeks, I woke up in the middle of the night, and out
of nowhere had contractions 3-5 minutes apart for 2 hours. And as I sat there,
there was this strange sense of calm that settled over me, and I thought, wow,
okay, so maybe I’m going to deliver this baby, and that will be the end of it.
It didn’t occur to me to wake Jamey up or call an ambulance or anything. 22
weeks is still awfully little. But then, they stopped, just as suddenly as they
had started. I hadn’t done anything I could think of to make them stop or
start. Out of my hands.
At 31 weeks, the same thing happened. This time I called my
midwife (even though I was working with an Ob, she was still giving me advice
and helping me out, because she’s awesome) and my Ob, and they both said, GO TO
THE HOSPITAL. And again, this strange sense of calm settled over me. I knew
there wasn’t anything I could do or not do about the baby coming early. It was
out of my control.
Luckily, the contractions stopped on their own again, and
after some monitoring and resting and hydrating, we all went back home. And I
had had a chance to see what the laboring rooms felt like, and know that I
liked the nurses pretty well, and have a little “dry run” of getting in the
car, having contractions in the front seat, finding my way to the maternity
ward, etc. I like to practice things, so it turned out I was actually pretty
grateful for it. And, while I didn’t love the monitoring and the lights and the
smells, I was able to say, okay, this isn’t awful, we’ll be okay if it has to
happen here.
By now, we realized that we really needed to get serious
about how I was going to cope with things. Even though our doula wasn’t free,
she suggested we sit down and talk through some of the things that had happened
with Sonya, so we could identify where they went “wrong” and try to adjust
expectations for how things would go this time around. And as we talked with
her, she eventually said that she felt like she wasn’t done working with us,
and that if we were okay with the possibility that she might not be able to
come at the last minute because of this big dinner she was in charge of, that she’d
like to be our doula again. We said, okay, that would be great! And, we
realized we had to be okay with not knowing what was going to happen.
About this time, we started talking with our Ob about
specific pain meds and what would be good options for us and what the hospital
offered. And, one by one, he and we realized that none of the pain meds were a
good idea for me. So. That sucked. And then I started having nightmares about
smallpox outbreaks in the hospital, and crazy ladies a la Mrs. Mike horror stories collapsing over my newborn baby in the
germ-infested delivery rooms. Which I knew were irrational! But they said
something about where my subconscious and my instincts were leading me, and it
wasn’t a hospital. If I couldn’t have pain meds anyway, what was the point of
going to deliver in a place where my gut feeling had me tensed up and I knew I
wouldn’t and couldn’t be as physically comfortable as I would be in my own bed?
Then, my midwife said that despite her busyness, and as long
as I was okay with the possibility of her back-up being there instead of her, that she would
be happy to do another homebirth with us. And, when we told our Ob at the ninth
hour that we were realizing that we were probably going to do another
homebirth, which we knew he thought wasn’t a great idea in general, he said,
well, I hope you will at least keep coming here for managing your meds and let
me serve as your back-up in case of emergency. Which was astounding and
wonderful, because what kind of Ob keeps a patient on when she does something
so wildly out of accord with what he thinks is right? I was and am still
incredibly grateful to him.
And then, holy smokes did I feel like I was Abraham, with
everything leading me back up the mountain of madness and falling into place
for me to go right back to the exact same experience of crucifixion and
sacrifice that had been Sonya’s birth. And I didn’t want to, of course, but every
instinct and sign and prayer seemed to be leading me back, and it felt like it
was out of my hands.
 |
| Taped up on the kitchen cupboard during the last few weeks of the pregnancy. |
As I tried to get myself into a place of being somewhat okay
with it all, I talked with other moms and did some reading, and I put together
a list of phrases to try to remember when I was in labor. Nothing like, “I am a
flower! I am peace! I am natural! I am beautiful! I am melting butter!” Because
those, believe it or not, felt like a big fat lie. And sappy to boot. I needed
to think on things that acknowledged the difficulties and reminded me that they
would not be forever. And that they had a purpose. And then I read this bit
from Fulton Sheen, which pulled together all the suffering and consecration I
had encountered with Sonya’s birth, acknowledged it, and told me what I had
suspected on my own.
Not only a woman’s days, but her
nights—not only her mind, but her body must share in the Calvary of motherhood.
That is why women have a surer understanding of the doctrine of redemption than
men have: they have to associate the risk of death with life in childbirth, and
to understand the sacrifice of self to another through the many months
preceding it.
The suffering of childbearing, both pregnancy and the labor
of giving birth, like nothing else in this world, allows us to redeem the
world. We become like Mary, in her role as co-redemptrix, and like Jesus, in
his sacrifice on the cross. And we give life to the world, through toil and
grief and heartache. And lots of other aches.
We had early labor at 36 weeks, too, and again it was all up
in the air, and we called my sister to come take care of Sonya, and Jamey left
work early, and then it stopped. Out of control!
When Rebecca’s labor did finally start, 3 days before my
actual due date (Sonya had been 4 days “early”), it started very similarly to
Sonya’s. We had gone to bed for the night, and at about 10, my water broke. But
this time it was just a trickle, not a gush. And we weren’t even sure at first,
because it was so… mild. But as it picked up, and our same midwife and our same
doula arrived, and the contractions got real, we knew pretty quickly it was the
real deal. But even though the circumstances were all the same, the contractions
never got as close as they had with Sonya, and I never got as panicked, at
least not for as long, and even though it was still a compound presentation
(both girls had a little hand right up next to their head), somehow it wasn’t
as awful. He took me back to the edge of madness, and asked me to be okay with
it, and then gave me a reprieve. But, let’s be real! It was still CHILDBIRTH.
The worst three moments, when the contractions were particularly heinous and
close, I thought three dreadful things: “Why isn’t anybody helping me?!” (Which
of course they were, but, you know…). “God, I never wanted this baby in the
first place!” (Which is true, as we have discussed, but hardly the point, since
He did and asked me to take care of her.) And, the kicker, which led to my
lightbulb moment: “Jesus, what did I EVER do to you to deserve this?!”
You see, back in college, I used to listen to this CD of
Gregorian Chant to help me turn my mind off and fall asleep. Mysteria, by Chanticleer (Yeah, that’s
right. I knew how to party!). It’s a collection of chants from Holy Week,
mostly of the Triduum—things we hear at Tenebrae, Good Friday, and yes, Easter
Sunday. Given what I’d been thinking about birth as our share in the act of
Redemption, and because I knew that this music was not only topically
appropriate but also something that calmed me down, I made sure we had it playing
on repeat. Some of it is meditations on the Cross, and, the thing that ended up
being the crystal, so to speak, is the Reproaches of Good Friday.
In the words from this piece, Jesus speaks to his people, telling them of all
the blessings he has given them, all the delights, and then speaks of the
suffering they have stored up for him in return. And it always comes back to
the same refrain: “Oh my people, what have I done to you? Or in what way have I
offended you? Answer me!” And at the moment I thought, God, what did I ever do
to you? I heard this refrain, and it took the wind all out of my angry and
outraged sails. I had no right to be upset and angry with Him, but I could lean
on Him, and suffer with Him, because He’d been there before, and I knew that
He’d be there time and time again for me, and be my Simon of Cyrene. And that
calmed me down and gave me resolution, or at least surrender, like nothing else
could or did. Into your hands, Lord.
When I sat up, all at once, desperate to get in the water,
it became clear, all at once, that Rebecca had no intention of letting me get
in the water. I pushed at the most, they said, three times, kneeling, and she
was born (with Sonya, I pushed for three hours). I remember how long and bony all her limbs felt, and wondering if
other people realized that she was coming already, and thinking (I kept asking
what time it was) that she couldn’t possibly be coming yet, because Sonya’s
labor had been three hours longer, so I must have three more hours to go. So I
announced, during that last push, as much to myself as to everyone else, “She’s
here!” And while Sonya was born to my terror and tears, Rebecca was born to a
room full of laughter. (In fairness to both of them, Sonya’s existence was
greeted with partying and rejoicing, while Rebecca’s was… not.)
I remember, in the hours after Rebecca was born, that
something made me think of a man I had once loved, and whose departure left me
hurt and broken for a long time. Peanuts! I thought. Training wheels. Nothing,
next to this horrific and glorious marriage and motherhood. Which, to be
honest, makes me more than a little trepidatious about what lies in store for
us in purgatory and heaven.
Which is silly. Because of course, what waits for us, is
nothing more or less than Redemption.
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| One of Rebecca's middle names is Amara. It means bitter, grace, sweetheart, and, the heavens are laughing. |
[1]
Planned by God, yes, which means we know existentially that there is a reason,
a purpose, a good and a joy that comes from it. But every pregnancy involves 4
persons (God, the mother, the father and the baby), and only One of us specifically
planned this.
