In the week since I posted last, I've had several really bad days and two great ones.
Thursday night, while Luke and I were watching a movie, I started to feel anxious again. My heart palpitated for no real reason, and I couldn't shake the sense of dread. This return of symptoms had a depressing effect on me as well. Since Luke didn't have to work, he took the baby and let me sleep it off.
Unfortunately, he worked the next night (Friday), and my concern that I wouldn't be able to sleep without his help became a self-fulfilling prophecy.
Every time Cami drifted off, I climbed back in my own bed, squeezed my eyes shut, and thought "Okay, relax relax relax relax relax." But, as half-hours turned into hours, I realized I couldn't unwind! Every few minutes, I'd go through a hot flash, and then my sweaty feet got cold due to the air-conditioner. Plus, I kept imagining I heard Cameran cry. Just before I'd cross over that line into "asleep," I'd get another wave of adreneline, look at the clock, and think: I'm running out of time before the baby will need to be fed again!
It. Was. Miserable.
That's why I REALLY didn't want to repeat the experience on Saturday night, when Luke worked again. But, worrying about it, combined with the fact that I was already overtired caused me to get even less sleep! There were storms in the area, which have always kept me awake. AND, even if my exhaustion forced my brain to shut down for a few minutes, I kept waking again in no time. By the time Luke walked through the door Sunday morning, I was frustrated to tears. I had taken a shower and begun getting ready for church because I HAD to get out of the house--but my arms and eyelids felt like lead. Cameran was wide awake and wanting to be held, but I didn't have the energy to get both of us ready. So, Luke helped by bathing and dressing her, and then he sent us on our way...
I felt pretty low at that point. I kept thinking What's the point of this trial?! I feel like I'm losing my mind, and the Divine purpose is....what?!
Of course, everyone at church gushed over how adorable my baby is, and they kept asking how she's doing. I answered honestly: "She's doing fine! It's her Mom who needs prayer." I tried not to be annoyed when some of the women heard me say I was tired and gave me knowing smiles. Yes, all new mothers are a little sleep deprived. But, not all knew mothers are awake 57 out of 60 hours. I specifically told everyone who asked to pray for my thyroid, so I can take advantage of the fact that my baby is an excellent sleeper... But, since I had been praying almost nonstop the last two nights, I didn't feel much relief even when my brothers and sisters agreed to speak to God on my behalf.
But then, at worship time, everything seemed to make sense.
We sang "Lord, I give you my heart. I give you my soul. I live for You alone. Every breath that I take--every moment I'm awake--Lord, have Your way in me."
I glanced a couple rows ahead of me, to a man in our church who has several disorders, including anxiety, obsessive compulsion, and depression. He had his hands raised and was praising God. I wondered how many hours of sleep he had gotten the night before--but I could see it didn't really matter to him. He was there, asking God to use him, regardless of the situation.
My mouth was so tired I literally had trouble singing the rest of the songs. But it was the best heart-worship I've experienced in awhile. "I'm trading my sorrows. I'm trading my pain. I'm laying them down the for joy of the Lord." Joy isn't dependent on amount of sleep. "Behold He comes, riding on a cloud, shining like the sun, at the trumpet call." Celebrating Jesus' return with my brothers and sisters isn't dependent on amount of sleep.
As the service continued, I felt more and more relaxed--more confident that God is in control, not me. And, I also felt more tired!
When I got home, I put Cami down for a nap--and I slept for two hours myself! For the first time in over a week, the sun was shining, and I was able to appreciate my bed instead of fearing it. Luke and I went to the store later, joking and holding hands while we shopped, and I started to feel sleepy again! I've slept well both nights since, and I realized today I'm starting to feel like myself again.
I just pray I only feel like "myself," and that I haven't actually returned to being the exact same person I was before. I want to be a more positive "self"--smiling even when I'm tired. I want to be a more empathetic "self"--recognizing and feeling for the pain of others, like the man in our church with the anxiety disorders. And I want to be a prayer-crazy "self"--testifying every chance I get as to its power and ready to share the trustworthiness of God's promises whenever I can.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
This Post is Not About the Baby (Volume Two)
When I first got pregnant, I promised not to submit post after post of baby-news, pictures, and other items typical of an expectant mother in the blog world. For the most part, I think I did a good job keeping baby updates on Facebook and reserving this space for musings on marriage, education, politics, and the like...
But, when I spent about two weeks on the couch dealing with morning sickness and had nothing else to talk about as a result, I published a piece I titled "This Post is Not About the Baby"--in which I thanked Luke for being a great partner during my nauseated, moody stage.
Well, folks, I've reached another phase in my life where--if I'm going to post at all--it HAS to be related to the baby. Obviously, she kind of dominates my days now. But, as with "Volume One" of the posts "not about the baby," Cameran only plays a supporting role in my musings today. As I expected, the drastic change she caused in my life has taught me much more about myself than anything else.
In just three weeks, Cami has rocked my world completely. I no longer decide whether to work on one project or another based on how many hours are in the day. Now, I have to figure whether those hours are truly "available," or likely to be spent feeding, rocking, or otherwise caring for Cami. No longer can I count on a full night's sleep just because I put myself to bed at a decent hour and have nowhere specific to be the next day. Now, it all depends on how long Cami sleeps... And, for a control freak like me, this has been hard.
At first, the majority of the New Mommy Stress came from my haywire hormones. I experienced intense anxiety, trouble sleeping, and a sense of loss for my "old" relationship with Luke right off the bat. One night, while he was at work, I was sitting in the middle of the nursery floor, feeding the baby, with tears streaming down my face for no discernable reason except that things were different. Eventually, I recognized body chemistry was a big factor in my feelings. AND, I knew a good way to preserve a part of my "old" identity was to keep writing. So, I journaled all those emotions. Here is an excerpt:
It’s been hard the last few days… This is what “they” mean when referring to the “baby blues,” I think. But it feels very similar to every time I turn a big corner in my life. Big changes tend to throw me for a loop, emotionally and spiritually. Combine that tendency with the fact that my hormones are out of control, and you can imagine a very tear-filled, fear-filled start to motherhood.
I Googled “Postpartum depression,” and almost every, single site said something like, “If you have thoughts of harming yourself or your baby, get help immediately!” Good Lord, I’m not that bad! But things feel kind of unpredictable right now, leaving me anxious, uncertain, and more-than-a-little-weepy.
When I went through puberty, I had somewhat of an identity crisis. I put a lot of pressure on myself to figure out whether I was athletic or brainy, tomboyish or girly, funny or serious—and I distinctly remember breaking down a few times when I couldn’t settle on certain categories. It seemed crazy not to be sure of who I was, and yet I struggled to “pick one.”
Similarly, when Luke and I started dating and I realized it was getting serious, I panicked while trying to define the relationship. Will we or won’t we get married eventually? If not, why continue to date? (And yet, I hated the idea of a break up.) If we will get married, then….yikes! That’s a lot to think about at 17. How will this affect our college plans? How will we support each other? What does the average couple need to make, per year, to survive? Would this union please God?
For a third example of a change-induced-crazy time, I struggled right after we got married—and right after I started working at the special needs daycare. I found myself reeling from all the “different” surrounding me. We moved out of our parents’ houses, and both of us got jobs for the first time (while continuing our full-time schedules as students). I knew I was capable of handling everything, but I still felt insecure and, most worryingly, doubtful about my decisions. Did I REALLY promise this man FOREVER? (We’d been joined at the hip for over four years at this point, and there was no specific reason to question things. But the permanence and the rapid change FREAKED ME OUT.) Eventually, all the newness caused me to neglect my prayer/journaling discipline, and I fell into a year-long downward spiral from “trying to survive” to “nothing-left-to-give-depressed-and-miserable-rut.”
Two things helped me in all of these milestone crisis situations.
1. Back-and-forth communication with God.
2. Communicating with myself through journaling.
In Junior High, I decided to let God define me, and I learned the important lesson that we don’t have to “pick” one personality over another. I discovered I’m girly AND tomboyish, funny AND serious, brainy AND…well, okay, there isn’t much athleticism in me. But, I realized it’s okay to be a walking contradiction sometimes. Different circumstances call for different responses, and I can be lots of different people when I need to be...
When going crazy over my dating relationship, I finally threw the responsibility to God there, too. I told Him to remove Luke from my life—shut the door in an obvious way—if he wasn’t the man for me. But I asked Him to bless us as we sought His will and to fill our marriage with love if it was meant to be.
And my blog was born the day I realized God was missing from my life yet again. I needed a place to express my thoughts. And, though I felt a little out-of-control, I wanted to write to others about how service to God is the highest human calling, regardless of how we feel. That’s how a rather emotional girl began journaling straight-forward, no-nonsense, unemotional selflessness—sometimes offending people with how detached I'm able to appear regarding certain topics...
Eventually, new things become old things. Crisis situations feel more manageable. And…eventually…even out-of-control situations can begin feeling comfortable.
Well, wouldn't you know that JUST as I was starting to adjust to the latest "crisis situation," my little girl threw another curve ball. For the first two weeks, she slept like an angel and literally only made noise when she absolutely had to. That is, if she was near starvation, she would fuss a little. But the rest of the time she only grunted her disapproval of things from time to time. When she wasn't sleeping or eating, she was staring us in the face--apparently reading our very thoughts with those big, blue eyes. And she rarely saw fit to cry.
I think God knew I couldn't handle more stress during those first tender days. Even though Cami was a good baby, her very presence was change enough to make me crazy. But, as I made it over the emotional hurdles through prayer, praise-singing, and journaling, the REAL Cami was unleashed. :)
She still isn't a bad baby. But she has been unusually cranky the last couple of days. I've suspected gas, since she has been extra wiggly and unwilling to let me hold her (unless she's eating)! And I've also thought maybe she's hitting a growth spurt and just needs lots of extra food. Regardless, her daytime sleep has been reduced to less than an hour per nap, and she has done more crying in the last 48 hours than in her first two weeks TOTAL. (sigh)
----
This post is not about the baby. It's about me. It's about the way I will choose to handle this situation. I've already declared round one, battling the Baby Blues, a victory for me. Instead of letting a dark cloud of depression consume me, I looked to God for my help.... But now, round two has arrived. Will I continue to praise Him, over the noise of my fussy baby?
It's difficult to praise when I'm tired and unable to sleep whenever I want. It's difficult to serve my baby girl selflessly when I've gotten comfortable in my selfishness. And, most of all, it's hard to relax and relinquish control of my life to a demanding infant and an invisible God....
But, that's what I choose to do.
But, when I spent about two weeks on the couch dealing with morning sickness and had nothing else to talk about as a result, I published a piece I titled "This Post is Not About the Baby"--in which I thanked Luke for being a great partner during my nauseated, moody stage.
Well, folks, I've reached another phase in my life where--if I'm going to post at all--it HAS to be related to the baby. Obviously, she kind of dominates my days now. But, as with "Volume One" of the posts "not about the baby," Cameran only plays a supporting role in my musings today. As I expected, the drastic change she caused in my life has taught me much more about myself than anything else.
In just three weeks, Cami has rocked my world completely. I no longer decide whether to work on one project or another based on how many hours are in the day. Now, I have to figure whether those hours are truly "available," or likely to be spent feeding, rocking, or otherwise caring for Cami. No longer can I count on a full night's sleep just because I put myself to bed at a decent hour and have nowhere specific to be the next day. Now, it all depends on how long Cami sleeps... And, for a control freak like me, this has been hard.
At first, the majority of the New Mommy Stress came from my haywire hormones. I experienced intense anxiety, trouble sleeping, and a sense of loss for my "old" relationship with Luke right off the bat. One night, while he was at work, I was sitting in the middle of the nursery floor, feeding the baby, with tears streaming down my face for no discernable reason except that things were different. Eventually, I recognized body chemistry was a big factor in my feelings. AND, I knew a good way to preserve a part of my "old" identity was to keep writing. So, I journaled all those emotions. Here is an excerpt:
It’s been hard the last few days… This is what “they” mean when referring to the “baby blues,” I think. But it feels very similar to every time I turn a big corner in my life. Big changes tend to throw me for a loop, emotionally and spiritually. Combine that tendency with the fact that my hormones are out of control, and you can imagine a very tear-filled, fear-filled start to motherhood.
I Googled “Postpartum depression,” and almost every, single site said something like, “If you have thoughts of harming yourself or your baby, get help immediately!” Good Lord, I’m not that bad! But things feel kind of unpredictable right now, leaving me anxious, uncertain, and more-than-a-little-weepy.
When I went through puberty, I had somewhat of an identity crisis. I put a lot of pressure on myself to figure out whether I was athletic or brainy, tomboyish or girly, funny or serious—and I distinctly remember breaking down a few times when I couldn’t settle on certain categories. It seemed crazy not to be sure of who I was, and yet I struggled to “pick one.”
Similarly, when Luke and I started dating and I realized it was getting serious, I panicked while trying to define the relationship. Will we or won’t we get married eventually? If not, why continue to date? (And yet, I hated the idea of a break up.) If we will get married, then….yikes! That’s a lot to think about at 17. How will this affect our college plans? How will we support each other? What does the average couple need to make, per year, to survive? Would this union please God?
For a third example of a change-induced-crazy time, I struggled right after we got married—and right after I started working at the special needs daycare. I found myself reeling from all the “different” surrounding me. We moved out of our parents’ houses, and both of us got jobs for the first time (while continuing our full-time schedules as students). I knew I was capable of handling everything, but I still felt insecure and, most worryingly, doubtful about my decisions. Did I REALLY promise this man FOREVER? (We’d been joined at the hip for over four years at this point, and there was no specific reason to question things. But the permanence and the rapid change FREAKED ME OUT.) Eventually, all the newness caused me to neglect my prayer/journaling discipline, and I fell into a year-long downward spiral from “trying to survive” to “nothing-left-to-give-depressed-and-miserable-rut.”
Two things helped me in all of these milestone crisis situations.
1. Back-and-forth communication with God.
2. Communicating with myself through journaling.
In Junior High, I decided to let God define me, and I learned the important lesson that we don’t have to “pick” one personality over another. I discovered I’m girly AND tomboyish, funny AND serious, brainy AND…well, okay, there isn’t much athleticism in me. But, I realized it’s okay to be a walking contradiction sometimes. Different circumstances call for different responses, and I can be lots of different people when I need to be...
When going crazy over my dating relationship, I finally threw the responsibility to God there, too. I told Him to remove Luke from my life—shut the door in an obvious way—if he wasn’t the man for me. But I asked Him to bless us as we sought His will and to fill our marriage with love if it was meant to be.
And my blog was born the day I realized God was missing from my life yet again. I needed a place to express my thoughts. And, though I felt a little out-of-control, I wanted to write to others about how service to God is the highest human calling, regardless of how we feel. That’s how a rather emotional girl began journaling straight-forward, no-nonsense, unemotional selflessness—sometimes offending people with how detached I'm able to appear regarding certain topics...
Eventually, new things become old things. Crisis situations feel more manageable. And…eventually…even out-of-control situations can begin feeling comfortable.
Well, wouldn't you know that JUST as I was starting to adjust to the latest "crisis situation," my little girl threw another curve ball. For the first two weeks, she slept like an angel and literally only made noise when she absolutely had to. That is, if she was near starvation, she would fuss a little. But the rest of the time she only grunted her disapproval of things from time to time. When she wasn't sleeping or eating, she was staring us in the face--apparently reading our very thoughts with those big, blue eyes. And she rarely saw fit to cry.
I think God knew I couldn't handle more stress during those first tender days. Even though Cami was a good baby, her very presence was change enough to make me crazy. But, as I made it over the emotional hurdles through prayer, praise-singing, and journaling, the REAL Cami was unleashed. :)
She still isn't a bad baby. But she has been unusually cranky the last couple of days. I've suspected gas, since she has been extra wiggly and unwilling to let me hold her (unless she's eating)! And I've also thought maybe she's hitting a growth spurt and just needs lots of extra food. Regardless, her daytime sleep has been reduced to less than an hour per nap, and she has done more crying in the last 48 hours than in her first two weeks TOTAL. (sigh)
----
This post is not about the baby. It's about me. It's about the way I will choose to handle this situation. I've already declared round one, battling the Baby Blues, a victory for me. Instead of letting a dark cloud of depression consume me, I looked to God for my help.... But now, round two has arrived. Will I continue to praise Him, over the noise of my fussy baby?
It's difficult to praise when I'm tired and unable to sleep whenever I want. It's difficult to serve my baby girl selflessly when I've gotten comfortable in my selfishness. And, most of all, it's hard to relax and relinquish control of my life to a demanding infant and an invisible God....
But, that's what I choose to do.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Sticking My Toes In...
I'm not ready to jump, canon-ball-like, back into the blogosphere just yet. Very soon I'll post some of the journal entries I wrote while dealing with the Baby Blues and yucky, anxiety-filled sleeplessness. My transition to motherhood has been--as I expected--an emotional one.
BUT, slowly I'm trying to balance the "new me" with the "old one," and I managed to find a minute this morning to visit some of my favorite political websites. There, I found an interesting story: The American Flag is Offensive in Schools. According to the report, a teacher refused to let an elementary student display his picture of the American Flag because the boy next to him was offended. The super intendent says that's not how it all went down, but I appreciate the author's commentary either way. Regardless of whether a boy's civil rights were encroached upon in this situation, the author pointed out the ridiculousness of claiming "offense" as a legitimate qualm in ANY case:
"The thing I find most irritating about [the American Flag Story] is the ridiculous idea that "offensiveness" should be a guide for anything. And it not only shouldn't be...but it cannot be.
This is because offensiveness is completely relative and subjective: most everything offends someone and most everyone is offended by something. Yet we won't prohibit everything. Would we kowtow to a child who was offended by sitting next to a black classmate? In short, we have to discriminate among people's feelings. And what will be the yardstick that we use to judge? Unless it is the "feelings" of the given authority figure -- in which case the judgments are completely arbitrary -- the standard of right and wrong must be applied.
Once you recognize this, the offensiveness argument goes out the window. It passes muster only in a relativistic universe in which, without a conception of Truth as a yardstick for making decisions, people use the only thing they have left: emotion. Yet this reduces society to the law of the jungle: we fight, using fists, votes, or words (maybe lies), and those who prevail see their will done. And that higher one, and civilization, are casualties.
The truth is that when people take offense, it's usually just a ploy. They're not really offended. They just don't happen to like what you're saying.
But if they were honest and said just that, they'd seem intolerant. So they try to seize the moral high ground by putting the onus on you and claiming you're "offensive." Yet they usually have neither the high ground nor anything moral. If they had the latter, they'd likely be able to mount an argument as to why you're wrong in a real, absolute sense. Instead, all they're saying, properly translated, is that they don't like how you taste. If they looked to Truth, however, they might find that the problem actually lies with their palate.
Something else that can exist only in a relativistic universe is the spiritual disease that today wears the label "liberalism." Get people to believe in Truth, and this disease will die as surely as will a fungus exposed to the light."
I like how this guy challenges those who are "offended" to explain WHY, with a "real, absolute" yardstick. I like how he talks about standards and spells Truth with a capital 'T.' I like how he points out that too many of our arguments stem from emotional issues and not from a genuine search for right vs. wrong--whatever the "offended" person may claim.
I'm still not ready to compose my next, big, offensive post about homosexuality or abortion or religion or whatever. But, when I do, I hope my readers are ready to discuss specifics and weigh my statements against the Truth.
I couldn't care less if they're just "offended."
BUT, slowly I'm trying to balance the "new me" with the "old one," and I managed to find a minute this morning to visit some of my favorite political websites. There, I found an interesting story: The American Flag is Offensive in Schools. According to the report, a teacher refused to let an elementary student display his picture of the American Flag because the boy next to him was offended. The super intendent says that's not how it all went down, but I appreciate the author's commentary either way. Regardless of whether a boy's civil rights were encroached upon in this situation, the author pointed out the ridiculousness of claiming "offense" as a legitimate qualm in ANY case:
"The thing I find most irritating about [the American Flag Story] is the ridiculous idea that "offensiveness" should be a guide for anything. And it not only shouldn't be...but it cannot be.
This is because offensiveness is completely relative and subjective: most everything offends someone and most everyone is offended by something. Yet we won't prohibit everything. Would we kowtow to a child who was offended by sitting next to a black classmate? In short, we have to discriminate among people's feelings. And what will be the yardstick that we use to judge? Unless it is the "feelings" of the given authority figure -- in which case the judgments are completely arbitrary -- the standard of right and wrong must be applied.
Once you recognize this, the offensiveness argument goes out the window. It passes muster only in a relativistic universe in which, without a conception of Truth as a yardstick for making decisions, people use the only thing they have left: emotion. Yet this reduces society to the law of the jungle: we fight, using fists, votes, or words (maybe lies), and those who prevail see their will done. And that higher one, and civilization, are casualties.
The truth is that when people take offense, it's usually just a ploy. They're not really offended. They just don't happen to like what you're saying.
But if they were honest and said just that, they'd seem intolerant. So they try to seize the moral high ground by putting the onus on you and claiming you're "offensive." Yet they usually have neither the high ground nor anything moral. If they had the latter, they'd likely be able to mount an argument as to why you're wrong in a real, absolute sense. Instead, all they're saying, properly translated, is that they don't like how you taste. If they looked to Truth, however, they might find that the problem actually lies with their palate.
Something else that can exist only in a relativistic universe is the spiritual disease that today wears the label "liberalism." Get people to believe in Truth, and this disease will die as surely as will a fungus exposed to the light."
I like how this guy challenges those who are "offended" to explain WHY, with a "real, absolute" yardstick. I like how he talks about standards and spells Truth with a capital 'T.' I like how he points out that too many of our arguments stem from emotional issues and not from a genuine search for right vs. wrong--whatever the "offended" person may claim.
I'm still not ready to compose my next, big, offensive post about homosexuality or abortion or religion or whatever. But, when I do, I hope my readers are ready to discuss specifics and weigh my statements against the Truth.
I couldn't care less if they're just "offended."
Thursday, May 5, 2011
You Really Can't Stay Pregnant Forever
My daughter, Cameran Joelle McKinney, was born Wednesday, May 4th, at 10:17am--after much, much, much waiting and anticipation. I can hear my mother now: "Amanda, she wasn't really THAT overdue." But Mom's part in this Birth Story Blog Post will reveal she was awfully excited herself!
True, Cami Jo came in her own “perfect time,” as all babies do. But, this is a story with a pretty steep narrative arc. The night before her arrival didn't feel like we were gearing up for "perfection."
(Reader, beware! I worked on this post all morning, between feedings and cuddlings. It is a shamelessly-long, detail-oriented account. I tried not to use embarassing biological terminology--but I didn't censor in length! Grab a cup of coffee before you try to tackle it.) :)
----
On Monday morning, my doctor told me to prepare for an induction on Wednesday night, if nothing happened on its own sooner. I really hadn't wanted interventions unless necessary, but my impatience and all the things looming on our calendar were tempting me with the idea. (An out-of-state friend's visit and a wedding were the big things approaching too quickly for comfort, if Baby wanted to be two or even THREE weeks late...) I'm not a fan of over-planning every one of life's events, and yet I was ready to have my baby!
Unfortunately, if I let Doc induce me on Wednesday, three out of four grandparents were going to be gone for different reasons and wouldn't be back all weekend! In other words, I needed to have the baby naturally before Wednesday, or go through with the induction and celebrate the birthday without my own Mom and Dad, OR just sit around anxiously for four or five more days hoping baby DIDN'T come until Sunday--all while we inched closer and closer to those big calendar events. Only the first option appealed to me, and I prayed hard my stubborn one wouldn't be stubborn a day longer...
I was absolutely thrilled when contractions started around 2:30am on Tuesday. In fact, I was too happy to fall back asleep, and I spent all day tracking the time between pains and keeping friends/family updated on Facebook. Obviously, I became increasingly uncomfortable, but I couldn't stop cracking jokes and singing to God--who had clearly answered my prayers for miracle timing. When contractions were 5-6 minutes apart and the most intense they’d been all day, we went to the hospital.
These days, I thought the medical community pretty much reduced labor/delivery to a convenience-centered science, for which they have different levers and buttons for different situations and almost ALWAYS provide you with a baby by dinner time. That is to say--I thought sending people away for "false labor" and instructing them to try more natural remedies was basically a thing of the past, particularly since THIS pregnant lady was scheduled for induction 24 hours later anyway. But, apparently it's a different story if your personal OBGYN is off-duty for the day. In that case, they'd rather do what they can to slow the process...
When the nurse examined me, she discovered I was only dilated 1.5 centimeters and 80% effaced. That was exactly what I measured at the doctor's office Monday, before 19 hours worth of contractions! I was devastated my body had done all that work with no external results. AND, I was going on 36 hours with only 2 hours of sleep. The on-call doctor instructed that Luke and I try walking the hospital halls for an hour, to see if I made physical progress. But otherwise they would call it "Braxton Hicks" and send me away.
People, these were not Braxton Hicks, and I knew it. I realize that young, first-time mothers like me have the potential to become over-excited and jump the gun. Or that those with less pain tolerance may be sure they’re dying long before things really get going. But, when I tell the nurse the pain level is at a 5 or 6 (and had been growing all day) I’m not just looking for drugs!
Luke and I decided to oblige with the hall-walking attempt, but I was pretty skeptical an hour would do much good after all day of no progress. We stopped every couple of minutes so I could grab the wall and breath through a contraction, AND we prayed some more… only to have the nurse announce “no change” at the end of the hour.
I was frustrated because the biggest pains I felt were LOW, in my pelvic area, and the monitors weren’t registering that far down. I explained to the nurse where all the pressure was, and she said, “We monitor up higher, because contractions start at the top of the uterus.” Then she declared, “Yours just aren’t hard enough to cause dilation yet.” This brought me to tears. They think I’m just a can’t-hack-it, I thought to myself. And—because I was mentally and physically exhausted, and because I was starving, and because I was in pain, and because I knew I wasn’t going to sleep again that night (yet would be expected to find energy to labor and deliver the next day), I cried. The whole way home, I blubbered to my very sweet, also-tired, also-disappointed husband.
Bitterly, I thought, “So much for miracle timing, God!”
Seriously, I could barely think straight, and my eyes kept closing spontaneously. But then a sharp pain in my abdomen would jolt me up so I could cry some more. (I kept thinking, “We are driving the wrong direction! You’re not supposed to send a woman in labor AWAY from the hospital!!!) They gave me a pain shot and sleeping pill before discharge, but those only allowed me about 2 hours of very rough sleep at home. At about 4:30am, I couldn’t even pretend to sleep anymore. I woke up Luke and said, “We have to do something.” My plan was to go back to the hospital and demand that they simply start the induction a little earlier than scheduled. There was no need to start contractions! So, they could break my water, administer Pitocin, or whatever—I didn’t care.
At first, Luke was hesitant. (He was still tired and didn’t want to make the drive if they were going to turn us down again.) But, while I was standing at the bathroom sink, I had a contraction that lasted at least a minute, and I felt the baby’s head move down about 2 inches. I marched to where Luke was in the living room and said, “I’m NOT having another contraction like that one in this house! We’re going!”
We checked into the hospital at 7:00am, and (praise the Lord) I had dilated to 5 centimeters. I remember getting this news, but I don’t remember much else except the back of my own eyelids, answering a few registration questions, and breathing through very, very frequent contractions. The pressure in my lower abdomen was intense, and I kept thinking “I NEED AN EPIDURAL!” I still thought we had 6-7 hours to go, at least, and I wanted to be numb enough to take a nap and recoup for pushing.
But, as it turned out, the epidural didn’t work like I’d hoped. It only really took the edge off. (The nurse said it “takes out the sting” but “doesn’t always take away the pressure” which had been the worst part all along!) My emotionally lowest point came while I was trying to hold still as he inserted the needle and I had THREE contractions while sitting on the edge of the bed. I could feel Baby’s head like it was poking out already, but I didn't realize that meant delilvery was close!
By the time the medication “kicked in” 45 minutes later, it was time to push! The pressure never went away, but I finally had a job to do besides “try to relax.” I told the nurse I couldn’t handle a long episode of pushing—I was too tired. But she told me if I worked hard for just a little while longer, I could sleep as a reward! That inspired me. Cameran arrived after 20 minutes of pushing, and only 3 hours after we checked in. In fact, the doctor tried to say “okay, stop pushing” once the head came out, but Cammie literally jumped into her arms after that anyway. I was out-of-my-mind exhausted immediately before hand, but hearing her cry was the adrenaline rush I needed.
Luke had a phone in each hand and was taking pictures/texting as soon as she popped out. (Actually, my dad ratted on him because my parents got a text that said, “I see hair,”—meaning Luke was texting even before she was born. Dad intentionally didn’t reply so as not to get Luke in trouble, but I was way too disoriented to notice!) And, within minutes of Cami’s vitals being taken (while the doctor was still cleaning me up) my mom walked in! She had gotten the call we were in the hospital approximately 2 hours earlier. And the drive to the hospital takes at least 1.75….legally. She even missed her exit and had to drive 18 miles out of the way! I have no idea how she did it.
So, I guess there are two morals to that part of the story. One is: despite what you see in the movies, sometimes people don’t get pulled over while racing to meet a new baby. And, two: God’s perfect timing triumphs, all the time.
Anyway, that’s the full-details version of the McBaby’s arrival. Since then, we have enjoyed a very alert, very strong, very happy little girl. She’s a great host—staying awake to look at EVERYONE who comes to meet her. The nurses say they’ve never seen a newborn’s eyes as much as we see hers.
It may take several days, or even weeks, for me to start blogging regularly again.
But I think Cameran is the best excuse I've ever had...
True, Cami Jo came in her own “perfect time,” as all babies do. But, this is a story with a pretty steep narrative arc. The night before her arrival didn't feel like we were gearing up for "perfection."
(Reader, beware! I worked on this post all morning, between feedings and cuddlings. It is a shamelessly-long, detail-oriented account. I tried not to use embarassing biological terminology--but I didn't censor in length! Grab a cup of coffee before you try to tackle it.) :)
----
On Monday morning, my doctor told me to prepare for an induction on Wednesday night, if nothing happened on its own sooner. I really hadn't wanted interventions unless necessary, but my impatience and all the things looming on our calendar were tempting me with the idea. (An out-of-state friend's visit and a wedding were the big things approaching too quickly for comfort, if Baby wanted to be two or even THREE weeks late...) I'm not a fan of over-planning every one of life's events, and yet I was ready to have my baby!
Unfortunately, if I let Doc induce me on Wednesday, three out of four grandparents were going to be gone for different reasons and wouldn't be back all weekend! In other words, I needed to have the baby naturally before Wednesday, or go through with the induction and celebrate the birthday without my own Mom and Dad, OR just sit around anxiously for four or five more days hoping baby DIDN'T come until Sunday--all while we inched closer and closer to those big calendar events. Only the first option appealed to me, and I prayed hard my stubborn one wouldn't be stubborn a day longer...
I was absolutely thrilled when contractions started around 2:30am on Tuesday. In fact, I was too happy to fall back asleep, and I spent all day tracking the time between pains and keeping friends/family updated on Facebook. Obviously, I became increasingly uncomfortable, but I couldn't stop cracking jokes and singing to God--who had clearly answered my prayers for miracle timing. When contractions were 5-6 minutes apart and the most intense they’d been all day, we went to the hospital.
These days, I thought the medical community pretty much reduced labor/delivery to a convenience-centered science, for which they have different levers and buttons for different situations and almost ALWAYS provide you with a baby by dinner time. That is to say--I thought sending people away for "false labor" and instructing them to try more natural remedies was basically a thing of the past, particularly since THIS pregnant lady was scheduled for induction 24 hours later anyway. But, apparently it's a different story if your personal OBGYN is off-duty for the day. In that case, they'd rather do what they can to slow the process...
When the nurse examined me, she discovered I was only dilated 1.5 centimeters and 80% effaced. That was exactly what I measured at the doctor's office Monday, before 19 hours worth of contractions! I was devastated my body had done all that work with no external results. AND, I was going on 36 hours with only 2 hours of sleep. The on-call doctor instructed that Luke and I try walking the hospital halls for an hour, to see if I made physical progress. But otherwise they would call it "Braxton Hicks" and send me away.
People, these were not Braxton Hicks, and I knew it. I realize that young, first-time mothers like me have the potential to become over-excited and jump the gun. Or that those with less pain tolerance may be sure they’re dying long before things really get going. But, when I tell the nurse the pain level is at a 5 or 6 (and had been growing all day) I’m not just looking for drugs!
Luke and I decided to oblige with the hall-walking attempt, but I was pretty skeptical an hour would do much good after all day of no progress. We stopped every couple of minutes so I could grab the wall and breath through a contraction, AND we prayed some more… only to have the nurse announce “no change” at the end of the hour.
I was frustrated because the biggest pains I felt were LOW, in my pelvic area, and the monitors weren’t registering that far down. I explained to the nurse where all the pressure was, and she said, “We monitor up higher, because contractions start at the top of the uterus.” Then she declared, “Yours just aren’t hard enough to cause dilation yet.” This brought me to tears. They think I’m just a can’t-hack-it, I thought to myself. And—because I was mentally and physically exhausted, and because I was starving, and because I was in pain, and because I knew I wasn’t going to sleep again that night (yet would be expected to find energy to labor and deliver the next day), I cried. The whole way home, I blubbered to my very sweet, also-tired, also-disappointed husband.
Bitterly, I thought, “So much for miracle timing, God!”
Seriously, I could barely think straight, and my eyes kept closing spontaneously. But then a sharp pain in my abdomen would jolt me up so I could cry some more. (I kept thinking, “We are driving the wrong direction! You’re not supposed to send a woman in labor AWAY from the hospital!!!) They gave me a pain shot and sleeping pill before discharge, but those only allowed me about 2 hours of very rough sleep at home. At about 4:30am, I couldn’t even pretend to sleep anymore. I woke up Luke and said, “We have to do something.” My plan was to go back to the hospital and demand that they simply start the induction a little earlier than scheduled. There was no need to start contractions! So, they could break my water, administer Pitocin, or whatever—I didn’t care.
At first, Luke was hesitant. (He was still tired and didn’t want to make the drive if they were going to turn us down again.) But, while I was standing at the bathroom sink, I had a contraction that lasted at least a minute, and I felt the baby’s head move down about 2 inches. I marched to where Luke was in the living room and said, “I’m NOT having another contraction like that one in this house! We’re going!”
We checked into the hospital at 7:00am, and (praise the Lord) I had dilated to 5 centimeters. I remember getting this news, but I don’t remember much else except the back of my own eyelids, answering a few registration questions, and breathing through very, very frequent contractions. The pressure in my lower abdomen was intense, and I kept thinking “I NEED AN EPIDURAL!” I still thought we had 6-7 hours to go, at least, and I wanted to be numb enough to take a nap and recoup for pushing.
But, as it turned out, the epidural didn’t work like I’d hoped. It only really took the edge off. (The nurse said it “takes out the sting” but “doesn’t always take away the pressure” which had been the worst part all along!) My emotionally lowest point came while I was trying to hold still as he inserted the needle and I had THREE contractions while sitting on the edge of the bed. I could feel Baby’s head like it was poking out already, but I didn't realize that meant delilvery was close!
By the time the medication “kicked in” 45 minutes later, it was time to push! The pressure never went away, but I finally had a job to do besides “try to relax.” I told the nurse I couldn’t handle a long episode of pushing—I was too tired. But she told me if I worked hard for just a little while longer, I could sleep as a reward! That inspired me. Cameran arrived after 20 minutes of pushing, and only 3 hours after we checked in. In fact, the doctor tried to say “okay, stop pushing” once the head came out, but Cammie literally jumped into her arms after that anyway. I was out-of-my-mind exhausted immediately before hand, but hearing her cry was the adrenaline rush I needed.
Luke had a phone in each hand and was taking pictures/texting as soon as she popped out. (Actually, my dad ratted on him because my parents got a text that said, “I see hair,”—meaning Luke was texting even before she was born. Dad intentionally didn’t reply so as not to get Luke in trouble, but I was way too disoriented to notice!) And, within minutes of Cami’s vitals being taken (while the doctor was still cleaning me up) my mom walked in! She had gotten the call we were in the hospital approximately 2 hours earlier. And the drive to the hospital takes at least 1.75….legally. She even missed her exit and had to drive 18 miles out of the way! I have no idea how she did it.
So, I guess there are two morals to that part of the story. One is: despite what you see in the movies, sometimes people don’t get pulled over while racing to meet a new baby. And, two: God’s perfect timing triumphs, all the time.
Anyway, that’s the full-details version of the McBaby’s arrival. Since then, we have enjoyed a very alert, very strong, very happy little girl. She’s a great host—staying awake to look at EVERYONE who comes to meet her. The nurses say they’ve never seen a newborn’s eyes as much as we see hers.
It may take several days, or even weeks, for me to start blogging regularly again.
But I think Cameran is the best excuse I've ever had...
Monday, May 2, 2011
Christians: Don't Use His Name to Stop My Party
Non-believers are forever asking us, Christians, how we can reconcile a loving God with all the ugly things in the world. Wouldn't a good God put an end to natural disasters, diseases, and other forms of suffering? Why would he stand by, arms folded, while innocent people died?
My answer is: yes, a loving God would put an end to those things. And, in fact, the one true God of Heaven says that once everyone has chosen their teams He will come back wearing a robe dipped in blood and wipe out the evil-doers. He will lock away Satan and anyone who rejected the free gift of salvation forever, and the armies of God will celebrate with a victory feast.
So why, when the brave US military ends the life of a man proud to carry a name symbolic of death and injustice, do the fearful and the pacifists begin raining on this country's parade?
I've heard the one-sentence argument: Jesus loves Osama bin Laden. But, does "love" really let terror reign?
As I've said before, the truth doesn't always make for a cutesy little Facebook status. Sometimes we have to dig deeper. And, when I dig through my Bible, I cannot ignore that God uses military language when speaking of ousting evil. It just so happens I'm reading in Isaiah right now, and it's positively loaded with examples of God's conquesting side. In some circumstances, God used military campaigns to further His will.
For example, when the Isrealites wandered through the desert, they tried passing through the lands of several enemy tribes. Repeatedly, Moses sent word to the tribes' kings: "We want to pass through peacefully." But, each time, those kings would respond with something akin to: "You're going to have to make me."
So, they did. Once the stubborn-hearted kings refused the offer of peace, our justice-loving God commanded the Isrealites to wipe them out. In fact, they were considered disobedient if they let anybody live. When a king used his freewill to make a choice against God, it left God with just one choice of His own.
Likewise, as I've mentioned, the time for choosing to ally ourselves with God will end, and all of His enemies will be eliminated. Those repeating "Jesus loved Osama" are leaving out Jesus' jusice and choosing to ignore the fact that Osama is accountable for his actions. Even if one tries to argue--along with Rob Bell--that no one ever goes to Hell, the fact is that eternal separation from God (or spiritual death) is the only option for someone who rejects that incredible love. Some people simply choose rebellion. And, though I don't understand why, they want nothing to do with my Osama-loving God.
Yes, Jesus loved Osama bin Laden. But Osama himself couldn't care less. When confronted with the words of Jesus, bin Laden scoffed. He heard the pleas of the innocent, the cries for freedom, and the demands that he end is reign of terror, yet he covered his ears and told America where to shove her ideologies. It sounds nobel to say "We shouldn't rejoice! Jesus loves everyone!" or to wonder whether bin Laden's cohorts will retaliate with even greater sins, but I reject both of these options. Bin Laden made his choice.
And now I choose to rejoice because I've witnessed a bit of justice on earth.
God bless the U.S.A.
My answer is: yes, a loving God would put an end to those things. And, in fact, the one true God of Heaven says that once everyone has chosen their teams He will come back wearing a robe dipped in blood and wipe out the evil-doers. He will lock away Satan and anyone who rejected the free gift of salvation forever, and the armies of God will celebrate with a victory feast.
So why, when the brave US military ends the life of a man proud to carry a name symbolic of death and injustice, do the fearful and the pacifists begin raining on this country's parade?
I've heard the one-sentence argument: Jesus loves Osama bin Laden. But, does "love" really let terror reign?
As I've said before, the truth doesn't always make for a cutesy little Facebook status. Sometimes we have to dig deeper. And, when I dig through my Bible, I cannot ignore that God uses military language when speaking of ousting evil. It just so happens I'm reading in Isaiah right now, and it's positively loaded with examples of God's conquesting side. In some circumstances, God used military campaigns to further His will.
For example, when the Isrealites wandered through the desert, they tried passing through the lands of several enemy tribes. Repeatedly, Moses sent word to the tribes' kings: "We want to pass through peacefully." But, each time, those kings would respond with something akin to: "You're going to have to make me."
So, they did. Once the stubborn-hearted kings refused the offer of peace, our justice-loving God commanded the Isrealites to wipe them out. In fact, they were considered disobedient if they let anybody live. When a king used his freewill to make a choice against God, it left God with just one choice of His own.
Likewise, as I've mentioned, the time for choosing to ally ourselves with God will end, and all of His enemies will be eliminated. Those repeating "Jesus loved Osama" are leaving out Jesus' jusice and choosing to ignore the fact that Osama is accountable for his actions. Even if one tries to argue--along with Rob Bell--that no one ever goes to Hell, the fact is that eternal separation from God (or spiritual death) is the only option for someone who rejects that incredible love. Some people simply choose rebellion. And, though I don't understand why, they want nothing to do with my Osama-loving God.
Yes, Jesus loved Osama bin Laden. But Osama himself couldn't care less. When confronted with the words of Jesus, bin Laden scoffed. He heard the pleas of the innocent, the cries for freedom, and the demands that he end is reign of terror, yet he covered his ears and told America where to shove her ideologies. It sounds nobel to say "We shouldn't rejoice! Jesus loves everyone!" or to wonder whether bin Laden's cohorts will retaliate with even greater sins, but I reject both of these options. Bin Laden made his choice.
And now I choose to rejoice because I've witnessed a bit of justice on earth.
God bless the U.S.A.
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