Around 30 weeks we figured out the baby was breech, and thus began my final worry. We were planning a home birth but the midwives' policy was no breeches and none of the local hospitals would perform a breech vaginally. So for weeks I talked to my baby about getting into position, even made up a song to sing her. I took homeopathics, performed various stunts of inversion acrobatics including an intense yoga position involving my very pregnant body upside down against the wall. We kept a board propped against the couch in the living room so 3 times a day I could lay upside down for 20 minutes. I tried ice on the top of my belly, acupuncture, moxibustion and a trip to the chiropractor. I researched turning a breech baby and found a statistic saying that 3-4% of breeches are from a congenital malformation. I hid this information away, hoping to discard it for good. But as the weeks continued and my baby didn’t turn it crept out more and more.
Even when Freya was born via cesarean and couldn't nurse in the beginning, I let myself be talked into thinking that she was just a bit earlier than we had thought. I believed that she wasn't totally in this world yet and needed some time. I planned a rebirth ceremony and cranial-sacral therapy for her actual due date a few weeks later.
But those first few weeks were terrifying. She was such a quiet, still baby and there were times, as I held her skin-to-skin against my chest, that I could almost feel her slipping away. I would be going about my business (which in the first few weeks of post-cesarean wasn't much) and suddenly Freya would feel distant, almost lighter. I would, probably too roughly, pull her away and speak loudly to her, pleading with her to wake up, please wake up. Often times it would be long, intense moments before she would even stir.
The night of Dia de los Muertos I sat up with Andy for a few hours trying to find a name for her. I had convinced myself that she needed a name to help keep her in this world. We could only come up with a middle, Jude. I fell asleep that night, Baby Jude on my chest, knowing that I needed to see her through this night, that I had to fight for her as I had been fighting for her from the beginning of this pregnancy. Perhaps it was my hormones, but fear is a powerful emotion. The next morning I woke to my baby who had stayed with me through the night, her umbilical cord finally fell off and we named her Freya, after the Viking Goddess.
I felt safer knowing that Freya had a name, but was still afraid that I would, at some random moment, notice that she was no longer with us. These were awful, indescribable feelings. Then one night, about 2 weeks later, my midwife came over and said we needed to talk, that they were concerned. Through my tears, and the thought that I had known this all along, I asked if she thought that Freya wasn't going to make it. The look of surprise told me what I need to know. "No," she said, "if I thought that I wouldn't be going home at night."
And that was enough. My baby was not on the verge of leaving me, and that made anything else seem absolutely bearable. I finally had my baby and could enjoy her. It was months before we got an actual diagnosis and there was more grief. However, as I said in my first blog entry, I couldn't believe what people said about these first few months being the hardest. I saw the future as a nightmare of health issues, shots, behavior problems and doctor visits. Not too mention the emotional turmoil that goes along with all of those. And I am only 5 weeks into the 'first few months are the hardest' phase so I won't act as if I still don't question so much of this. But I have already begun to hope again and can see on the horizon a future of acceptance and understanding.
Perhaps it is that these first few months are spent questioning this experience. The what's, the how's and especially the why's. But on that horizon I can see a time when we get past the questioning and trust in ourselves and this experience. Each day I try to take another step forward.
But those first few weeks were terrifying. She was such a quiet, still baby and there were times, as I held her skin-to-skin against my chest, that I could almost feel her slipping away. I would be going about my business (which in the first few weeks of post-cesarean wasn't much) and suddenly Freya would feel distant, almost lighter. I would, probably too roughly, pull her away and speak loudly to her, pleading with her to wake up, please wake up. Often times it would be long, intense moments before she would even stir.
The night of Dia de los Muertos I sat up with Andy for a few hours trying to find a name for her. I had convinced myself that she needed a name to help keep her in this world. We could only come up with a middle, Jude. I fell asleep that night, Baby Jude on my chest, knowing that I needed to see her through this night, that I had to fight for her as I had been fighting for her from the beginning of this pregnancy. Perhaps it was my hormones, but fear is a powerful emotion. The next morning I woke to my baby who had stayed with me through the night, her umbilical cord finally fell off and we named her Freya, after the Viking Goddess.
I felt safer knowing that Freya had a name, but was still afraid that I would, at some random moment, notice that she was no longer with us. These were awful, indescribable feelings. Then one night, about 2 weeks later, my midwife came over and said we needed to talk, that they were concerned. Through my tears, and the thought that I had known this all along, I asked if she thought that Freya wasn't going to make it. The look of surprise told me what I need to know. "No," she said, "if I thought that I wouldn't be going home at night."
And that was enough. My baby was not on the verge of leaving me, and that made anything else seem absolutely bearable. I finally had my baby and could enjoy her. It was months before we got an actual diagnosis and there was more grief. However, as I said in my first blog entry, I couldn't believe what people said about these first few months being the hardest. I saw the future as a nightmare of health issues, shots, behavior problems and doctor visits. Not too mention the emotional turmoil that goes along with all of those. And I am only 5 weeks into the 'first few months are the hardest' phase so I won't act as if I still don't question so much of this. But I have already begun to hope again and can see on the horizon a future of acceptance and understanding.
Perhaps it is that these first few months are spent questioning this experience. The what's, the how's and especially the why's. But on that horizon I can see a time when we get past the questioning and trust in ourselves and this experience. Each day I try to take another step forward.
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