Tag Archive for: strength

When Beau Was Born.

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Never in my life did I think I would give birth without an epidural. Mostly because I’d rather not be in more pain than I need to be. But also because I really didn’t think I could do it. And when my baby’s head was inching its way out of my body in the triage room bathroom, I was more terrified than I can ever remember being.

My labor with Lilah was odd. It wasn’t like how I’d been taught in my birth classes. “5-1-1” was what they told me and then head to the hospital. But my contractions were never that way. One minute, 30 seconds, three in a row, a few minutes between. They were all over the place. And in the early hours of November 19, it was just the same.

Around 4:30am, Eric urged me to call my doctors office after I announced that I felt like my pelvis was splitting in half. “Doesn’t sounds great, Lizz”, he said and handed me my phone. The doctor on call assured me we had time, after all my contractions were all over the place. Even after sharing my previous birthing experience, she told me to wait until 7am to come in. To be honest, I wasn’t even convinced of my own labor, and was afraid I’d be sent home, so I agreed. A half hour later I hobble down the stairs amidst intense sweats and bouts of nausea, stopping every few seconds to get through another wave of pain. This baby was on its way, that much I knew. I just had no idea how “on its way” he really was.

We pulled into the hospital around 5:20am and parked on the roof. I refused to let Eric drop me off at the front door. I was terrified to be left alone. My contractions were now one big block of pain. As we exited the elevator a surge of pressure caused me to wonder if I was about to give birth right there on the sidewalk. We waddled a bit faster and I collapsed in a wheelchair at the door. Up on the 8th floor I could barely give them my name. They wheeled me back to triage with the promise to check me in properly, once I got settled. We sat in the hallway while they prepared the triage room for us. A janitor reminded me to breathe through the pain as I contemplated how I was ever going to make it an hour until the anesthesiologist could get there.

Once in the room I decided to try and pee before the poking and prodding began. No sooner had I sat down, I felt this undeniable urge to push. I couldn’t have stopped it if I tried. It was like my body had taken over and I was just a crying, blubbering shell. Eric thought my cries of “he is coming now” were just my dramatic nature (which in his defense is completely valid). But once he realized there was indeed a head coming out of me, he ran to the hall. A few nurses flooded into the bathroom, took one look at me and began shouting instructions. I remember telling one of them “I can’t do this” and she said to me “but you already are. You’re doing it!” *mental note to find that nurse and buy her anything she wants*

I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror before they waddled me out into the room and onto the bed. I looked straight into my eyes, those same eyes that have overcome so much deep fear and many dark days. I remember thinking in that moment, “I think I’m going to die or at the very least pass out”. But the body is an amazing thing, the female psyche is an amazing thing.

Somehow my shoes and sweatpants made it off and there I was, my head hanging off the bed, pushing my baby boy into the world. 3 big pushes and he was out. I have never been so relieved in my entire life. I have also never been so proud of myself or so certain that I can do hard things.

I don’t always believe that I can get through hard things without breaking. But all signs point to the fact that I have, and I can, and this little guy will always be a symbol of that. In the weeks since, I have already been hit with moments I don’t think I’m strong enough to face. I don’t always believe that I can get through hard things without breaking. But all signs point to the fact that I have, and I can, and this little guy will always be a symbol of that.

 

The Place That Brought Me Back To Life.

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I look at this picture, stare straight into the eyes of this woman, and I catch my breath. There was a time I hated the eyes that stared back at me, banged my head against the mirror in agony, shuddered at the thought of my future. My life is not perfect, but there is a strength and a hope that was never there before. I am thankful for my journey. So thankful.

Spring triggers the memory for me. The smell of new rain on the earth, bonfires, the feel of warm sun on my face. The most unlikely of places brought me back to life 12 years ago.

We weren’t really a camping family. Sure, I ran around barefoot all summer and climbed trees like a monkey, but nothing that quite prepared me for this.

I arrived terrified beyond anything I’ve ever felt. The truck bumped along the gravel driveway for over a mile before grinding to a hault next to a brown ranch building. I went in the front door with only the clothes on my back, and came out ready for the next two months of my life. My hiking boots pinched my feet, and the cargo shorts they’d given me clashed terribly with my new yellow t-shirt. I climbed back into the truck, refusing what they called “the last supper”, a Big Mac and fries, before making our way slowly up the mountain to the drop off point.

We stopped at the edge of a thick forest, and the door opened beside me. My driver helped me out of the truck and clipped my pack to my back. Another man was waiting for me by the woods, ready to take me to what was next. I wanted to scream and cling to the bearded man who’d brought me here. I’d only known him for a few hours, but the sound of his truck driving away felt like deep abandonment.

The new man hiked in front of me as I stumbled along behind. My pack was too heavy for my small frame even though it had barely anything inside. By the time we arrived at the campsite, my hips had been rubbed raw.

Little did I know the hardships I’d experience over the next two months; the agony of missing family events, of finding out I would not be going home again, the physical pain I would overcome as I hiked through the Blue Ridge mountains. But deep suffering does something to us doesn’t it? When we are stripped of everything we find something underneath it all. We find grit we didn’t know was there. We find those many wonderful things God gave us as babes that we forgot were even there.

I struggle with suffering. I want it to go away. In fact, I spend much of my life subconsciously trying to avoid it. But when I stop and really consider, suffering is what grounds us. It grounds us to God, ourselves, each other, our humanity. Over the years has come this understanding that for us to fully live as we’ve been created to live, we must experience suffering. Our choice is how we to choose to navigate through the hard.