My Words

Today's post weaves together the ideas of my two previous posts:

The first was about the value and healing that can come from telling your story and being heard.  To Speak and Hear 

The second was about grief that comes with the untimely loss of a child. Her Baby Died

The reflecting and writing of those experiences has cultivated a strong response within me. I need to share that response with her. I need share them here so that others holding onto grief: fresh or lingering- can know there are people in your life who feel this way. People who want to listen. If you can't find your people- find me.

Dear Amanda,

I think about you every day-in the morning when I wake up, moments here and there during the day and before I fall asleep at night. I am not the only one thinking of you. I don’t tell you that to make you feel uncomfortable, but to show how deeply I am touched by the loss of your son Joshua.

I am sad to know you are changed forever by this loss- that you can never go back to May 4, 2015 and un-know this all. I am sad to know you are a mother that will not get to hold, nurse, comfort your baby boy. I don’t know what it is like to go through a loss of a baby. I haven’t lived it. I can only imagine how hard these days must be. 

I feel led to write this to you, to reach out and share the words written in my heart. I know that words aren’t always what you need. I know that the most well-meaning friends can say things that make the hurt worse. I do not want to do that. It is hard for those of us that care about you. We want to make it better; we want to take your pain, to make sense of it. And we can’t. And that is hard too.

If you don’t like my words you can stop reading now. Read it later- or never. One nice thing about a written letter is that you get to be in control when you read it- if you do. 

In my work I have been at births where the baby was still born, injured, or died soon after birth. I’ve witnessed the mothers of these babies live into their grief, through it and out the other side. I’ve listened to their stories, treasuring them like precious jewels. Each one’s journey is different, each with her own timing and grace. 

These are words I’ve heard from other grieving mothers. A collection of reflections and my offering to you:

• You are Joshua David’s mother and you always will be. He is your precious first born. You miss him and we do too.  

•  It is ok to be angry, sad, jealous and more angry. God is big enough to hear your cries, your screams of anger. God’s heart breaks as yours is broken.

• God is ever with you- holding you, surrounding you with love, offering you hope and peace when you are ready and able to receive it. 

•  ·    This is not some kind of test of your faith. You did nothing wrong. God did not plan this loss for you and David. It is not something that you were given because you are strong enough to handle it- it is too much for any mother.

• Your family, friends, and church ache for your loss. They love you and are praying for you. The may not understand what you are feeling, but they will keep loving you. When you feel lost and lonely remember us here loving you.

And for the time that you need to talk about it- to tell your story- I would be honored to listen. I don’t expect you to be ready today or maybe not even a year from now. But IF and WHEN you are ready there is so much I want to hear about.

 I’ll listen to the story of:

• How you labored
• How your husband took care of you
• How your body birthed your sweet son
• About those moments between his birth and knowing something was wrong.
• Tell me about him. Who does he look like? (I think you). Tell me about his dark hair, his perfect face, his long fingernails
• Tell me about your first hours of motherhood
• And the hard things- the trip to the hospital, all those minutes you didn’t know for sure, saying good bye, your last holding of him, those first days home, and then the days after that.

Tell me. And I’ll listen celebrating those tiny moments sparkling of joy and victory. And I’ll listen with sorrow and grief to the life changing loss.

I am not afraid. I will listen. 

With love-

Betsy

Her Baby Died

The day was sunny, the first really warm day of the season.  My son Sam and I were on our way to town for his afternoon preschool session when my phone rang. Caller ID listed the name of a woman I knew was due to have her baby this week. I figured her husband was calling for a ride to the birth center or with the good news of their baby’s arrival, so I answered. 

But it wasn’t him or the expectant mother. It was her neighbor Laura’s voice on the line. I recognized it right away. My heartbeat picked up pace as she greeted me quickly. “Did you hear about Amanda’s baby?” 

“No. What? Why are you calling from her phone?” I choked out, panic rising in my throat.

She hesitated with her answer, “Her baby died. Well, he was born Monday night at the birth center, then they took him to Riley’s in Indy and he died there about 8 hours after he was born.” Her voice sounds heavy and her words are clumsy.

“No! Oh my no!” I yelled into the phone. I might have let a few swear words slip too, I really can’t remember. 

I was so shocked.

“We are all here at her house- (she preceded to list off 4 other neighbor ladies I know from birthwork) the viewing starts in half an hour. Actually, everything is ready and we are leaving to go home now. You should come and see her. You should come now before the crowd.”

What we didn’t say, and both were thinking is of the two other neighborhood women, who had also lost their baby at or soon after birth. Two other funerals that Laura had helped prepare for and that I had attended, all within the last 3 years. These women now bound by a most miserable reality all within view of each other’s homes. Across the pasture or out the kitchen window, they have each other in sight always. She explained that the baby was born with a genetic condition that made it impossible for him to survive out of the womb.

I knew she was thinking about them when she said, “And here I go home to my baby- my three healthy boys. I feel so guilty.” Her voice drips with the pain of it. 

“Laura, please….” I tried to cut her off.

“I know I shouldn’t feel bad, but I do. Each time I see them I feel it. And I see them a lot.” She confessed.

“Thank you so much for calling Laura. I would have found out too late if you hadn’t called. Now I have a chance to come and see him before he is buried. Go home and be with your boys.” I hung up and in the rearview mirror made contact with the gaze of my worried five-year-old. 

“Her baby died, mom?” he asked, wise beyond his years. “That is not supposed to happen. Mom’s need their babies to stay with them so they can take care of them and nurse them.”

Through my tears I nodded in agreement.

The next 40 minutes passed in a haze. Before I knew it, I was standing in the doorway of the garage where they held the viewing. On a round side table set a small walnut coffin and three flower arrangements. Coffins should not be this small. The parents, David and Amanda, were seated on a love seat beside the table. Amanda, having given birth not even 48 hours prior sat dressed in black and covered with a blanket. The rest of the family formed a receiving line of sorts, all in black, all seated on benches, all trying hard not to look at me. 

From the viewing

I expected the most difficult part to be viewing Joshua’s little body, grey and purple. But it wasn’t. The hardest part was the expression on Amanda’s face. Pure grief embodied. Her face was still puffy from the pregnancy and pale white. She reached for me and pulled me down to her. As we embraced she sobbed. Her hot tears fell onto my neck. Words passed between us, I can’t remember really what we said. She released me. I took one more look at her son. He resembled his mother.

It was too much, too wrong.

I excused myself, not able to face the rest of the receiving line, hoping that my non-Amish status would excuse my rudeness. I walked as fast as I could to my vehicle and left.

The grief scratched across my mother’s heart, leaving a slow thin opening from which it bled. As a birth worker, I struggle to segment my professional and personal lives. I carry the weight of this loss. Just like the joy after a victorious birth can energize me for days, so too the grief follows me. It is unaware of the boundary between my professional and personal selves. For me, each new loss is a trigger for past traumas. Memories resurface creating a vortex of fear and anxiety with it. This loss is now, is today. But it is also the loss three years ago, and the year before that, and five years before that. 

I find myself working over my theology of grief, turning it like a smooth stone in my hand. 

Why did this happen? Where is God? Is this a punishment? Is this a part of a plan, the higher purpose, a lesson to be learned? 

I am not alone in the asking and seeking for answers. I’m not alone in the desire to understand, to make sense of it. What I come back to time and time again. What sinks in deeper with each of these losses is that God is not the instigator, the distant planner, the harsh teacher. God does not wish a mother to bury her child in the ground.

God does not wish for us a grief so deep, isolating and lasting. Illness, pain, loss and suffering are things of this world, part of our human experience, not of God. So if God is not those things- distant, punishing, plotting- where then? 

GOD IS WITH US. God is here in the mess, here in the suffering. God’s heart breaks with ours. God feels the pain of our loss and grief with us. God is holding us so we can actively mourn. God is big enough for our anger, our sadness and our tendency to get lost within ourselves. God is in the times where there are no words. God is in the days where anger, jealousy, pity control our hearts. And we may not acknowledge it, may not look for it, may not even feel it- but yet God is there.

This understanding is what I held to as I lived through two miscarriages. It is my heart’s prayer for each mother I know that is dealing with the loss of a pregnancy or baby. 

Grief’s scratch across my heart will turn into a thin ribbon of a scar. And although pulled closed with time, it will always be with me. My pink ribbon of a scar will remind me that Amanda will always be Joshua’s mother. It will burn with the knowing that it isn’t fair, or easy, or right

that he died.

To Speak and Hear: Sharing the Common Experience of Childbirth

The mid-spring morning sun shone through the perfectly clean windows of her living room.  Seven mamas arranged in plush sofas and rocking chairs around the perimeter of the room, forming a circle.  The center of the circle, covered by a floral area rug filled with babies. Seven four- month-old baby boys wiggled and squirmed under the careful watch of their mothers.

Seven baby boys!

The last time we gathered in this living room all babies were still on the inside. Mentally, I compared the then and now: before and after. 

Flush faced and smiling they visited easily. Topics of discussion ranged from baby feeding, baby sleeping/waking, where to get the cheapest diapers- all about the baby.

Next we ate together. The main dish a breakfast casserole, a large dish containing eggs, cheese, hash-browns, gravy, bacon, and sausage cooked together. Buffet style we filled our plates with baked goods, salty snacks, and fruit. Every chair at the oak dining room table held a place for us, our Styrofoam plate, and steaming cup of coffee. The mothers ate and continued the polite chit chat of new motherhood. I anticipated the birth stories waiting to be told. I checked my watch, only 15 minutes into our gathering. I needed to be patient. I wanted to hear their stories.

This childbirth class reunion is held under the guise of “meeting the babies”. And it is that, but also more. It is a chance for the women to speak their experiences of birthing and breastfeeding in a setting free of the rigid social limits of their Amish culture. My role is the facilitator and my presence creates a context where they feel free to speak their mind.

Sometimes they do. Sometimes they do not. I can’t ever really predict HOW a reunion will go. 

One of the talking points in my last childbirth class is discussing the “range of normal of labor and birth.” The pregnant couples listen as I list the various ways labor and birth can unfold and still be normal. The list includes things like: how labor starts, how long labor lasts, weight of baby, gestation of baby, etc. They hear my words, but I suspect they don’t really GET what I’m talking about. The goal of the talk is to prepare them ahead of time for the unpredictable nature of the labor they soon face, but also to emphasize that in the end HOW a labor/birth plays out is not a direct reflection of the woman’s strength or weakness. I want to lay a foundation to ease the guilt and shame that is inevitable when a woman’s labor is not as she imagined it would be.

I politely waited until we were done eating, all seated back in the living room babes in arms, before I launched in. “So I’d love to hear your birth stories- as much as you are willing to share.” I want them to sense they are free to talk about whatever they need to. “Things like: how it started, was it what you expected, how did nursing go, how was your recovery?” The list of questions is long, leaving room for the women to find something they feel comfortable sharing. 

The conversation unwrapped itself like a spool of thread spinning to empty. My role as facilitator faded into the background. Each took her turn recalling from beginning to end, the birth of their first child. Bravely they shared about the hardest parts, the desire to give up, the doubt, the injury, the plain hard work of it all.

Their heads nod in recognition, “me too” in chorus. Before my eyes they transitioned from individual birth stories to a communal connection. Community is a place Amish are familiar with, but not so much when it comes to the intimate details of labor/birth/recovery. And in this community group setting I observed healing. Trauma relived and relieved by the telling. 

“I didn’t get to hold him for the first whole hour while they stitched me up.” Anna stated with a clenched throat, tears welled behind her glasses. 

Or “I pushed for four hours. I didn’t think I could do it. I didn’t think I would make it.” JoAnn stated flatly. Her son rested his fuzzy head on her shoulder as she spoke she patted his bottom. 

The woman sitting next to her reached out and gently grabbed JoAnn’s elbow and squeezed. “I know they kept telling me to push and I didn’t have anything left. It was three hours for me.” Gina relieved at the idea she wasn’t the only one. 

And then there was Lorriane, “I feel so guilty. I got the epidural; I wasn’t brave like you all.” 

Before I could open my mouth, someone else assured her that her bravery and effort to deliver her son was enough, with or without an epidural. I sat in awe, a witness to these women. HOLY CONNECTION HOLY MOMENTS.

This continued for hours: Breastfeeding success and failure, stitches, baby blues and postpartum depression, colicky babies, and stubborn husbands. For four hours. 

THIS IS WHAT NEW MOMS NEED! A SAFE PLACE TO OPEN UP AND BE HONEST AND VULNERABLE WITHIN THEIR COMMUNITY. TO BOTH SPEAK AND LISTEN TO THE COMMON EXPERIENCES AND JOYS OF NEW MOTHERHOOD. TO KNOW YOU ARE NORMAL AND NOT ALONE.

I was the first to leave, wanting to stay. I drove away wondering how to replicate this experience. What do I need to do to make this happen every time I gather for a childbirth class reunion? The further I drove from her house the more clear it became. I can’t MAKE this happen. I can gather, facilitate, model empathy, listen and affirm the mothers. But I can’t force the organic element that is essential to reach the deep levels of sharing and healing that I just witnessed. It has to come from one of them.

The gatherings that yield a sisterhood kind of feel are ones where there was a woman willing to go first, willing to admit her struggle, willing to hold the others to the same level of sharing. I keep a mental list of those women, Amish women who would be great therapists and teachers. I wish I could take them with me every time I had one of these groups.

So I’ll not give up. Every gathering I’ll do my part: gather, lead, listen, normalize and affirm. And I’ll not give up hope that by holding this space there will be connection and healing.

Perseverance: One Doctor Makes a Difference

Amelia & Sam with Clayton in 2012

This fall I visited with my grandfather, Clayton Sutter on his 95^th birthday. My grandfather is a storyteller, I likely get it from him. Despite his years in age, he is able to recall many detailed stories from his childhood. Just a few years ago he self-published a book of his life story with the help from family and friends. (Order his book here on Amazon!) When I go to visit him in his small room at Greencroft with my three children it is difficult to visit, always an interruption from one or a shuffling of stuff from the other. It’s hard for me to get time to really hear his stories. On his birthday I visited by myself and was rewarded with this wonderful birth story.  

My grandfather recalled the event with a raspy chuckle. He sat in his brown recliner tipped way back, beyond factory settings. Staring up at the ceiling he methodically described the scene. The details he reports were orally passed down to him, of course he has no memories of his own birth. 

Their home was on a small rural rented tract of farm land in Illinois.  On October 17, 1919 my great grandmother anticipated the birth of her 10^th child.  Within the walls of their humble home, she labored and labored.  The family doctor in attendance watched and began to worry as the labor went on and on. The doctor from the next town over was sent for, in hopes his additional support and assistance could help with this protracted labor. 

Back then home birth was the norm and the local town doctor attended the birth. My great grandmother spent many hours in hard labor, working to push out “little Clayton”. I’ve not done research to find out the detail about what kind of “assistance” was available to moms in that era. I assume it was limited. In the telling of the story my grandfather at no point mentions talk of a hospital or transporting to the hospital.  

According to him, as the minutes passed the two doctors continued to worry about both mother and baby. At some point, they decided to send for the specialist in Bloomington about 25 miles away.

Having attended a few nail biting home births as a midwife’s assistant I understand their stress. The responsibility of being one of two people in attendance of what is potentially an urgent medical situation is a heavy load to bear. In my case I hold to the resources of modern cell phones, Ambulance/EMT and hospital services. My great grandmother and her birth team were limited in their options. So they did what they could by procuring the specialist from the city.

Scale used to weigh baby Clayton

Eventually Clayton Christian Sutter arrived into the world at a whopping 12 pounds. Yes folks 12 pounds!  It is assumed that this, in combination with her short stature, was the source of the difficulty of the birth. But relief did not come upon his entry into the world. Clayton was not breathing. Blue and big. Limp without effort. The doctors worked. The specialist, and two family doctors worked and worked to get this baby to breathe. This baby, my grandfather now calmly telling me this story hands folded across his belly, white wavy hair cushioned against the headrest.  

When the specialist and doctor from the nearby town gave up, the family doctor persevered. The lore is that this heroic doctor turned to the others who had given up saying, “Chris (my great grandfather) needs this boy.”  Being the family’s doctor he knew them well and understood the value of this baby boy. The oldest of Christian’s children Lawrence, was born in 1900. Eight girls fill the gap until Little Clayton. In a rural farming family, sons were of great value. This doctor was determined to not give up.

“What happened then?” I asked sitting on the edge of my seat adrenaline coursing. Grandpa laughed at my serious demeanor, “Well, I started to breathe I guess.”  

Even though he’s been legally blind for the last 8 years, his senses still pickup on all the subtle cues of situation. I let out the breath I didn’t know I was holding. Of course, obviously.  He did breathe. He is still breathing.

But those moments of resuscitation feel like minutes, I’ve lived through them I know. My hands working, mind racing, fingers dialing for help. It flashes real, as if it is happening there in that retirement home room. Occupational hazard, the way those traumatic memories surface in an ordinary day. “Breathe Betsy back to this moment.” I continued what had become an interview of sorts about his birth.

“It was the family doctor, that saved me. My parents were ever grateful for his persistence,” my grandfather recalled. *Play the hero music in the background* 

This family doctor, serving the medical needs of his small Midwest town, humbly saved my grandfather's life. He who lived among them day to day in the same town.  This man persevered and continued resuscitation efforts when the others gave up. 

My grandfather has lived a meaningful life. He spent 68 of his years married to my grandmother, Elsie.  Together they increased the earth’s population by four children, 4 grandchildren and 10 great grandchildren. Oh the difference the doctor's decision to not give up has made in my world.

I wish I could name that family hometown doctor here, pass this story on to his own granddaughter. I’d thank him for following his instincts. Give him his due glory. But I don't know his name. 

Instead I’ll thank all the healthcare providers out there who don’t give up. May they feel the gratitude from the patients they serve. May they be made aware of the outward rippling of the the lives they touch today and for years to come.