[Note: She's one today. ONE. O.N.E. And I'm remembering the day she passed through the darkness, into the light and into our arms...]
"I'm not strong anymore," I stammered, gasping for breath. "Not after all that's happened. After last year." The pain of another contraction began. "Please. Please, I need drugs."
His eyes, those deep, green, melt-me-right-through eyes, met mine and he whispered, "Okay. Whatever you need." Our first four were natural births; I chose not to use drugs.
I lay on my side, trying to run from the pain, the contractions that were coming now every three minutes and the back labor that I could not escape. The three of them--my Love and two doulas--pushed down on my tailbone, doing all they could to ease my unbelievable aching. These nine months coming to a quick end, and all the pain I've carried inside surfacing, leaving me undone. In my mind, I just kept running. "Please," I whimpered, "I just want to sleep. I can't do this. I'm not strong enough. Just make it stop. Make it stop!
But. It. Wasn't.
I remembered the day. How all day Noah, the one and only, this boy who prayed for a brother now begging me: "Please have my sister today! I just want to hold her!" And the Blondie One demanding at lunch time: "I want the baby to come out of your tummy!"
I agreed with the children: I too wanted to see this precious one. To hold her in my arms. Smell her freedom scent. I felt a small whisper say, "You'll start labor at eight tonight." It was six and we were having dinner. I took note of it and went on with our evening.
But now. Now? No. I was not ready. I needed more time. Sleep. Please. It was two in the morning.
Then the prayer came back to me, the words I had spoken just hours earlier. In an effort to begin labor two days past my due date, walking the neighborhood, the children running wildly ahead with Daddy, I whispered the words. "Father, use me. I'm open. I submit to your will. Your will be done. Amen."
Three weeks ago I had read it. Submission and courage... in labor and birth, this is what it all comes down to. Had I meant it? Was I really wanting to be used for His will? Or just to be relieved of the swollen womb now stretched nine months' thin?
The pain began again and all I could do was beg... please, please, something needs to be done. Something needs to be done.
We'd only just arrived two hours earlier... My Love had forced me out of my comfortable bed and into our minivan to drive to the hospital where I would birth our fifth child. I did not want to go. At home, stalling between contractions just four minutes apart, I argued that they were not strong enough and that I probably wasn't really in labor. We should stay a bit longer. My Love called our friend Molly to come stay with our other four. We were on our way.
The doulas met us at the hospital door and up we went. The nurses took no time checking me in and when they checked to see how far dialated I was, we all sighed.
"You're just a two," she'd said, the nurse named Kim.
I knew it! "Let's just go home," I whispered to my Love.
"No, let's stay and see what happens," he said. "You always go fast."
This is true. I do. Charlotte Anne, the strong woman of grace and favor, only took two and a half hours to arrive.
We stayed. But I did not want to be there.
Everyone knew it, too. The home birth I planned was now just a dream and my Love held my face in his hands and whispered "I need you to be okay with staying. We're having our baby in the hospital. Can you embrace that?" I just cried. Another plan, another broken dream. Oh, how many of these can I take?
Olafur Arnalds played in the background and the aroma of lavender, frankincense and eucalyptus filled the room. My three helpers where there to do whatever I needed to massage away the ache. The scene was peaceful.
But my heart was a mess.
Marlita, our dear friend and doula, thought it would be best for the nurses to check me again to see how I'd progressed. I had not yet even been officially admitted.
"A four/five!" said the nurse, this time named Amy.
The mood in the room lightened... except for me. A four/five? "Oh, I can't do this! It's taking forever!" I reeled.
The room began to spin as they did all it took to admit me. Lights were turned on. Bracelets affixed. Vital signs checked. Heplock jammed into the side of my wrist. When the nurse could not get my rolling veins to cooperate after shoving the needle around for a few minutes, she called in reinforcements: the lab lady from downstairs was sent for.
They left the room and for a moment there was peace again. But still, my heart was troubled. Had God forgotten me? Was He not going to help me through this labor? I was not strong. My Love called me Brave but really I'm a coward. All I want is sleep. And for this pain to stop. Please, why more pain? Were the last two years not enough? Can I get any relief? I can't take this!
Then the disco ball rolled in. It was the woman from downstairs, the lab technician here to take my blood, complete with a pound of makeup and hairspray. She bulldozed her way through the doulas warning them to "Move out of the way" and over to my left arm. My Love was on my right, holding my hand through the pain. Like he has for years. Strong standing with me as I fall apart.
This shock of a woman had me running inside again. But this time, something changed. The wave of a contraction surged through my body and the lab technician began to poke and prod my arm. The pain was peaking when she asked me to make a fist. I was concentrating. Again, she commanded, "Make a fist, sweetheart!"
My Love, irritated, asked, "Could we just please wait for this contraction to end?" She dimmed, and in that moment of lights and noise I found peace. I ran to it. In my breathing I called out to the only one that could help me. I could only breathe, "Yahweh."
Another surge came and I did not run.
Closing my eyes, I breathed, "Yahweh... Yahweh... Yahweh..."
The tight squeeze rolled over my womb down my back through my pelvis and down to my toes. Each contraction more intense. Each push bringing forth life out of the darkness of my womb. And with each breath I called to Him, "Yahweh..." and He was there. And He whispered to my now-open ears:
I've never left you. All this year darling, I've been by your side. Just like now. See?
Yes, yes, now I see. They were coming so much stronger now, faster. Threatening to crush me. My head moved from side to side as I fought to breathe. I breathed it out again, "Yahweh..." With every breath, blowing down to my toes, speaking to our dear baby girl to follow my breath and come through to light. To show us her beautiful, wet, vernix-covered face.
The room was so still. So holy. Christ himself asking me to allow Him to be strong in me. That all I needed to do was to breathe. Just breathe. I did. I did.
Another check, only an hour since the last one. "Eight."
There was a burst of water. A scurry of feet. Nurses only. The doctor had not made it yet. I breathed, "Yahweh... Yahweh... Yahweh... Yahweh..." My body burning with fire from the pressure of life. Joy coming out of darkness, surging through the deepest, darkest parts of me.
I breathed and felt her body move down.
The pressure. Oh, the pressure.
I breathed, "Yahweh..."
A man's voice broke through and with one push she was here. Steadfast, unfailing love came into the world through a beautiful baby girl. Constance Charity Palmer. They laid her meconium-covered body in my arms and I bawled, "I needed you!"
Yes, I did. I needed her. To see. To see through pain to the light of truth. To see that beauty was just on the other side of this darkness. And that through that dark tunnel I was never alone. He never left me. Never abandoned this too-broken mess.
Joy, just on the other side of pain. I'm so thankful for the grace that opened these shut-tight eyes.
And these last days I've been struck by joy. Unspeakable joy. Her eyes. Her blotchy pink skin. Her dark hair. All grown inside me. That the Father makes beauty from a mess. Oh.
Those first sacred morning hours with my precious one. Jesus just loving me through her. Then these first days home every moment, hour, passing by... just so holy. All of it. All of this darkness, all of this darkness... and now light.
I feel held and loved. I feel rescued and delivered. I feel birthed. Whole.
And how is it that so much love can be in such a tiny package? She's messy. She's uncoordinated. She's completely dependent. And I see myself in her. I see that the only thing I can do is breathe and rely on the Father. "Yahweh..."
And this video of her birth that my Love put together. Ugly cry. So much sweetness.
Thankful for a year of kissing those sweet cheeks and many more! Happy birthday, dear baby Constance.
