The Confronting Birth

“I’m pregnant,” my cousin told me over the phone.

Her voice was shaking a little and I immediately felt an immense rush of conflicting emotions.

Anger – at the unfortunate timing.

Guilt – that I had put her in a position that made this joyous announcement so painful and difficult.

Envy – she was my age and pregnant with her third child. It seemed so unfair.

Joy – after a miscarriage last year and another 12 months of trying, she was FINALLY pregnant with her last child.

Anger, though, was the primary emotion.

A few days before I had written a group message to my sister, cousins and close friends: “This is the lowest I have ever been,” I reported after my first IVF cycle failed. “I have never felt such defeat and hopelessness.”

And then a few days later……my cousin calls me.

She was only 5 weeks pregnant and obviously wanted to tell me as soon as possible, but the timing could not have been worse. A new emotion began to permeate through me and it caught me off guard – it was hate. I realised that I hadn’t yet felt hate in this journey: I didn’t hate her, I hated my infertility. I was so angry and resentful that we were in this position in the first place. After so many years, it felt like it was never going to end and I was so tired of putting my friends and family in awkward positions;  I was tired of suffering, tired of being sad and tired of feeling angry (as discussed in previous posts, this horrific belief of self-blame and shame is supremely detrimental to one’s mental health and does not help you or your friends).

I wished my cousin could have told me a few weeks later but the truth is there was just no good time for her to tell me, especially since the next IVF cycle failed and I found myself utterly traumatised by the egg pick-up procedure.

The matter of the fact is that it was just such unfortunate timing – she got pregnant at the exact time that my IVF cycles failed and now I had to watch her progress and have a baby around the time that I could have potentially had my own baby had either of my cycles worked.

It was unbelievably unlucky timing.

I didn’t speak to her for the next few months. It wasn’t even out of choice – I just couldn’t do it.

She was the same age as me; my best friend growing up; we did EVERYTHING together; we were inseparable, and we fought like sisters. The yin to my yang, we hated yet intensely loved each other. I forced her to go on crazy adventures and she kept me grounded and responsible (or at least she tried).

She is gorgeous, driven, motivated and very competitive. A tiny tomboy, she always beat the boys in the school yard, regardless of the activity. Being petit and blonde never stopped her: she grew up to be a Pediatric Nurse Practitioner, volunteer firefighter and hobby rock climber.

She married a firefighter and they had two beautiful boys together. Now she was pregnant with her third child and I couldn’t even celebrate with her – I hated what infertility was doing to me and my relationships. But, I was so deep in my suffering I didn’t know what else to do.

As Victor Frankl states in Man’s Search for Meaning – 

An abnormal reaction to an abnormal situation is normal behaviour.

Months went by and I never spoke to her or even asked my other cousins about her – it was just too painful. My biggest focus became survival and the primary stressor (now that we were taking a break from IVF) was my marriage. My husband and I loved each other but we were suffering; we were so depleted that we had nothing left to give. Communication was a struggle and so was quality time together. I was doing whatever I needed to survive and he was doing the same.

What saved us was not taking this personally; we gave each other allowance; we gave each other space; we allowed each other to grieve and to act out however we needed to at the time, regardless of how irrational it seemed; we didn’t overanalyze our actions, our emotions or our breakdowns – we just allowed it to happen, and that was FREEING.

But we also felt the need to be proactive in our self-development. You can only wallow for so long until victimisation inevitably takes over, so we decided to invest in some personal development.

Through some friends, I attended an online weekend conference run by a woman called Dani Johnson in America. Her personality training blew my mind and has forever changed my understanding of and communication with my husband. She was unbelievably tough on her audience and accepted NO EXCUSES, making everyone take 100% responsibility for their lives; I loved her immediately.

Her impact was so profound that we did something immensely spontaneous – we decided to attend her conference in America. We hoped that this would revolutionise our marriage, as this was our number one priority. When we spontaneously booked our tickets I didn’t even think about my cousin or her pregnancy. It was going to be a quick trip, as Jarod only had one week off work and I had to return for doctors appointments, but little did I know how divine the timing was going to be.

When I told my family I was coming to Tennessee for a couple days, one of my cousins hesitated. She messaged back awkwardly, “Uh, you know that Kristen is due around that time, don’t you?”

My heart stopped.

I hadn’t even thought about that.

I had been so caught up in attending the conference that it never occurred to me to ask when her due date was, but her other two boys were born right around their due date so I figured she would have had the baby by the time I arrived in Tennessee.

I felt overwhelmed with guilt that I didn’t known her due date – in fact, I didn’t even know what gender the baby was.

Reconciliation needed to be made, but I was too depleted to think about it; I would deal with it when I got there.

A quick and moderately stressful trip ensued. My husband and I hustled to the conference, feeling considerable regret that we hadn’t planned this trip well enough to allow ourselves time for a much-needed restful vacation, especially after the horrendous year we’d just had.

When the conference ended, I rushed off to Tennessee for a couple jet-lagged days before turning around and tackling the long and arduous trip back to Australia. I landed in the small airport of our home town and a couple of my cousins picked me up. My beautiful “niece” greeted me such elaborate enthusiasm that I felt a pang of homesickness emerging in my stomach; I tried not to cry.

My aunt and uncle were preparing a big lunch for the whole family and as we drove over to their house my cousins informed me that Kristen had not yet had her baby.

My eyes widened in disbelief.

A heaviness began to build in my throat and I tried to gulp down this invisible weight, but it didn’t move.

“But she’s way past her due date!” I exclaimed in surprise.

They both shrugged their shoulders and nodded in agreement. This wasn’t normal for my cousin, though as a midwife I know that third pregnancies can sometimes have annoying and difficult labours; we don’t know why, and I’m not even sure if there is a scientific explanation for this phenomenon, but it’s something we see quite often.

I was profoundly disappointed: I was hoping to meet her baby on my short stint home. I was so conflicted that it felt like my heart was tearing in half. I also didn’t want to see her pregnant for some reason (maybe it was because I had hoped to be pregnant at the same time). A big part of me wished that I wasn’t in this situation at all; I desperately wanted to avoid this conflict all together, but the universe had different plans for me.

My cousin wasn’t there when we arrived at the house. I waited anxiously for her arrival and a few minutes later I heard her car pull into the driveway. My heart was beating out of my chest – I still couldn’t believe that I hadn’t spoken to her, my best friend since childhood, since she was 5 weeks pregnant!

She walked through the door, and even though she was past her due date, she was as cute as ever with a tight little belly. I gulped. I had not planned what I was going to say to her and the words left me.

She walked up to me and gave me a hug – it was not a forced hug, it was a loving hug, a forgiving hug, a no-judgement hug; it caught me by surprise.

“I’m so sorry I haven’t called you,” I croaked out the words, “I just couldn’t…….” my voice trailed off. I honestly didn’t know how to explain my emotional state over the last few months.

“It’s ok,” she said as tears now started streaming down her face, “It’s all ok.”

In those simple words she released me of my burden, letting me know that I didn’t have to explain anything.

I started to weep.

I was so moved by her understanding, her empathy, her intellect and her emotional intelligence.

I suddenly realised how hard it has been going through this horrific journey of infertility, all these years, away from my family: I didn’t realise how much I needed their love, support and understanding.

When we were done crying we wiped our tears and rejoined the family. As we walked into the living room she said one last thing, “I’m getting induced tomorrow.”

The heavy lump in my throat was back.

I felt like I couldn’t swallow.

Conflicting emotions enveloped me again and I felt intensely exhausted from this never-ending rollercoaster; I was excited, yet terrified – I wanted to meet her baby before I left, yet it seemed way too confronting. I wasn’t sure I could face it. I could tell she wanted me there, but also understood if I couldn’t be there. The emotions were tense, but warranted.

This whole situation was more than I could bear.

The timing was undoubtedly divine, but it also felt like the master of the universe was playing a trick on me.

I was exhausted. This whole year had been about survival and avoiding triggers, but here I was –  I couldn’t escape it.

I spent the evening with my brothers, hearing about their life plans and girl problems. I was well distracted and tried not to think about the upcoming event. My cousin was being induced first thing in the morning, and with her history of “precipitous labours” (very fast), I figured that by the time I woke up and had breakfast she would have had her baby by then.

I dragged my feet in the morning, taking my time to get ready. By mid-morning there was no news and I suspected that perhaps this 3rd baby was going to be a “difficult” delivery after all. As we drove to the hospital I felt myself becoming overwhelmed with panic: my heart was racing and my palms began to sweat.

It was weirdly nostalgic walking into this maternity hospital where I had done some clinical shifts with a midwife fifteen years ago when I was nursing student. I was only 19 at the time but remembered thinking that I’d love to be a midwife one day: I still can’t believe that I now live in Australia and have become an ICU/Flight Nurse AND a Midwife!

I felt unbelievably torn as we stood outside the locked doors, buzzing to enter Labour and Delivery (Birth Suite); I couldn’t wait to see her, yet every fiber in my body tensed into fight or flight mode. I wanted to run away – an involuntary impulse that left me with clenched jaws and fists.

I was apprehensive as we entered the room; I wanted to vomit. My other cousin was there, her professional camera in hand; my cousin’s husband, my aunt and another close friend sat around patiently waiting – it had been HOURS!

I could hardly believe it. Last time my cousin presented to the hospital she was ready to push the head out, but she had been so calm that the nurses hadn’t believed she was in full labour yet!

I looked at the CTG (baby heart rate monitor). “Baby looks happy,” I said clinically. My hands were shaking. My cousin was pale as she breathed quietly through another contraction. “I’m only 5cm,” she informed me.

She was being induced, so I had a feeling that once the contractions got stronger she would dilate very quickly but was relieved that she wasn’t pushing while we were in the room. Her “entourage” had been by her side since the early hours of the morning. They had expected to her to have had the baby by now (as we all had) and they said they were starving. I suddenly felt relieved that we had an excuse to leave – we would go get them lunch.

My cousin Kara huddled up her kids and we left to yet another place of nostalgia for me – Panera – a bakery/cafe where I worked for several years while I was studying nursing. I still remember the thrill I felt when my pay went from $6.50/hour at Panera to $14/hour as a Registered Nurse. I felt so rich, and apparently my friends shared a similar view as a few of them suddenly expected me to start paying for everything since I was now “loaded”. Australians would be horrified at a such a low minimum wage, though things here cost double or triple what they do in the States.

We were barely gone 10 minutes when Kara got THE text.

“She’s pushing,” she informed me.

Once again, I was distraught by my immense cognitive dissonance: I would have loved to be there, and yet I couldn’t face it either – the divine had saved me in those ten minutes.

We quickly picked up our order of sandwiches and rushed back to the hospital that was only 5 minutes away. By the time we entered the room the baby had been delivered and the room had been cleaned up.

Adrenaline was coursing through my body and I found the situation so profoundly confronting that I thought I was going to pass out. My hands were shaking and I wanted to vomit.

“This isn’t about you,” I reprimanded myself, “this is about Kristen. DON’T make this about you!” I gulped back the tears and forced a smile. She was holding a beautiful baby girl and I was so happy for her. I was NOT going to make a scene. This was HER moment and I was NOT going to make it about me.

I gritted my teeth in determination and clenched my fists.

A sensation was building in my chest that I hadn’t felt before. It was so foreign that it caught me off guard. I tried to fight it, but it began to build and build and build. The emotions rose in my chest and started accumulate in my throat. I was trying my hardest to fight it, but it was starting to overflow. I envisioned myself using my hands to forcefully push this overwhelming, invisible sensation down, down, down: it was rising so fast I was starting to feel like I was going to drown. My forced smile was starting to fade. Everyone kept stealing glances at me – the whole family aware of how confronting this was for both me and Kristen. They oozed empathy in their non-verbal body language but no one said a word.

I was starting to panic. I couldn’t push this feeling down any longer. It was consuming me. I was angry that I was losing control, but it was stronger than me.

Suddenly it began to erupt and I identified what “it” was.

Desire.

It was desire.

I realised with enormous shock that I had not allowed myself to feel desire since that fateful day of my very first diagnosis, when I walked home with clammy hands holding the ultrasound pictures of my uterus and polycystic ovaries – the day I knew my journey to pregnancy was going to be fraught with difficulty (and this was before I even had my Endometriosis diagnosis).

It had been unconscious, but I had buried that feeling so deep in my soul that I hadn’t even realised that I’d done it; to allow myself to feel desire was so inexplicably painful that I had obviously hidden it away to unreachable depths.

And now it had re-surfaced – WITHOUT my permission.

I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I tried to swallow back the emotion as a few pathetic croaks escaped from my throat, but as soon as they were liberated the dam exploded. Tears began to pour out and my muscles shook violently in response to the emotional release. My cousin was sitting in the bed, holding her baby, looking across at me and then she began to cry.

I walked over to the bed and gave her a hug, my whole body shaking. “I’ll stay with you tonight,” I said, barely able to get the words out.

“Are you sure?” she asked, “If it’s too painful…”

“No,” I said staunchly, “I want to….and I need to.”

She nodded in agreement.

I felt like I was suffocating. I hadn’t wanted to make a scene, yet I here I was making it “all about me” (though deep down I knew the family didn’t view it that way). I needed to leave and gather my wits. I said my goodbyes and left to go home to not only pack an overnight bag for the hospital, but to pack my bags for my return trip to Australia (as I was leaving in the morning).

The fresh air outside swirled around me, scooping up some of the released emotions and dissolving it into the sunny autumn atmosphere. The leaves on the trees waved at me gently in brilliant gold, orange and red hues as if whispering “It’s ok, we got this. We’ll take this energy from you and we’ll recycle it. That’s what we do. Just release it and we’ll take care of the rest.”

Autumn, of course, heralds the change of seasons – which made this moment monumental and symbolic.

When I returned to the hospital a few hours later, my cousin had already been transferred to the Mother/Baby Unit (postnatal ward).

My throat constricted again as I entered. My two little “nephews” were now in the room, gushing with gloriously animated enthusiasm at their new little sister. It was so cute to watch. My aunt was clenching her hands to her chest, bursting with excitement as she watched the boys gush over her new granddaughter.

My grandmother sat on one of the chairs observing her family with a matriarchal pride that only a great-grandmother can feel. She looked up at me with sadness, “Oh Katrinita,” she said, her words heavy with her heavy heart. “Come, sit,” she said, patting her thin legs. I sat timidly on her lap, conscious of her frail frame, but knowing full well that my grandmother was anything but frail.

In fact, both of my grandmothers are strong, driven, motivated, matriarchal women who have dedicated much of their life to helping the less fortunate. Their powerful stories of volunteer work, delivering babies in South America, and their passion for obstetric nursing obviously impacted me quite deeply. As an adult, I finally realised how blessed I am to have such powerful, inspiring women to pave the way – not everyone is so lucky.

I nestled my head into my grandmother’s shoulders as she wrapped her arms around me and began to rock empathetically. I broke. I began to sob. She continued to rock me. “This must be so hard for you,” she acknowledged. I continued to weep uncontrollably. The rest of the family gathered around me, hugging me and placing their hands on me in empathy.

It was like a scene from Avatar, when the Na’vi gathered around Eywa (the tree of souls), holding and touching each other as they connected physically in their grief and sorrow.

It was spiritual and etherial.

My grandmother continued to rock me as I was enveloped with love and support. Kristen  walked over and joined in as well, baby in one arm, the other arm reaching into the circle of love that now surrounded me.

I glanced at my family through my glazy tears and noticed, with profound astonishment, the juxtaposition that they were balancing with ease and remarkable grace – they were expressing empathy, sorrow and grief for me while SIMULTANEOUSLY expressing joy and excitement for my cousin. I noticed in their expressions that they were not withholding their feelings of joy, but neither were they withholding their feelings of grief over my suffering and my loss.

The moment was transcendent and enlightening. I was blown away by their profound emotional intelligence in handling such a delicate, charged and complicated situation. I was so grateful to not only experience but to witness such graceful empathy, and felt immense respect for my family.

When I later relayed this powerful and impactful experience to my Psychologist she smiled gently. “It goes to show,” she said raising both hands, palms upward, in a symbolic gesture of holding and balancing, “that it IS possible to hold joy and sorrow in the same moment.”

A few hours later the family left and I was alone with my cousin. I was sitting on the couch, exhausted from the events of the day. My cousin came over, and without asking, placed her baby girl in my arms. I was startled by the realisation that I hadn’t held a baby in over 3 years. I realised that even though I worked with babies, I had become clinical and methodical; I’d pick them up to change a nappy (diaper), or to perform a position change in ICU; I’d pick a baby up to hand it to a mother after a c-section, or I’d pick a baby up to re-adjust positions for breastfeeding (yes, my psychologists admits that I have one of the MOST difficult jobs for someone experiencing infertility) but I hadn’t held or cuddled a baby in several years.

“I’m so afraid I will never have this,” I choked, admitting out loud something I hadn’t said in 5 years.

I started to weep again as desire rushed over me, a feeling so painful that I wanted to die: I could see why I had suppressed it for so many years – it was an inexplicable excruciating torture to desire something so fiercely, and to have it denied you no matter how hard you worked for it (harder than most people have had to work for any single thing in their entire life). Desire was utter torture and I could see why I had buried it,  but the divine had decided it was time for it to re-surface.

My cousin wrapped her arms around me and again, we cried. I felt so guilty that I was “ruining” her moment – a moment that should be nothing but pure happiness, but she didn’t seem to mind.

We talked into the night, catching up on the last year’s events. Her baby girl was apparently going to be as feisty as her boys, screaming in protest every time she was wrapped or put down. My cousin stayed up for most of the night, doing skin to skin and breastfeeding (unusual behaviour, as most babies are very sleepy in the first 24 hours – even hard to wake at times – and then start to cluster feed on day 2 and 3, but you always get the odd baby that starts cluster feeding from the moment they’re born, giving their mother’s no reprieve or rest).

I tried to get some sleep on the hard sofa bed, amidst the screams, before tackling the long trip home the next day. Morning came quickly and I realised that my exhaustion might actually do me well – I had a 24 hour trip in front of me: Tennessee to Georgia: Atlanta to LAX; then the 14 hour flight from Los Angeles back to Australia.

We said our emotional goodbyes and I rushed to the airport to find it unusually busy. “This is crazy!” I exclaimed to a security guard. He nodded in agreement. “Yep,” he said in his southern drawl, “it’s always like this during Thanksgiving.”

Thanksgiving? Was this week Thanksgiving?

I nearly slapped my head in front of him: what an idiot I was. My trip was so ill-planned that I was leaving a couple days before thanksgiving – one of my favourite holidays: a testament to the emotional wreck that I was!

I collapsed into the plane seat and started crying; I was so exhausted from the events of the last few days and I was bitterly disappointed that I was missing thanksgiving.

I executed the rest of the trip in zombie-like fashion, completely unaware of how intensely I was going to crash when I got home.