Wednesday, April 15, 2009
To my son -Peter William Jackson,
The day you came into this world was an interesting one. Things didn't happen like daddy and I expected. You will learn that most of life is this way. I'm still trying to accept this myself. It is difficult to let things be the way they are when you so wish they could be different. But I have a feeling, that in the end, things end up just as they should. It's called faith. And enduring cheerfully to the end. It isn't easy. But I try.
Around 6 a.m. on the morning of April 8th, as I lay in bed next to daddy, I felt a trickle of something run down my leg. Trying not to hope too much that today was the day I would meet you, (and that my water was breaking), I got out of bed to investigate. Moments later I felt another trickle. Could it be? I woke up daddy and he agreed that something was indeed happening. I sent a message to your Nana and Aunt Amy right away. My water broke! Peter is coming! I was so excited and anxious to start feeling the pain that would bring you into the world and into my arms. I was ready to work and labor my way through---I wanted to feel purpose. I knew the pain would bring you here.
But nothing happened. We walked and walked and trickled and leaked...and still nothing happened. We ate and napped and waited and waited. Step aerobics?--check. Breast pump?--check. By 2:30 the midwife said we had to go to the hospital. By 3:30 I was lying in a hospital bed anxiously awaiting for my contractions to start. I have a feeling you didn't want to say goodbye to your sister, Lucy. I had dialated to a 5 already but was still feeling no pain. We bounced on the birthing ball, daddy read to me (we are re-reading the Chronicles of Narnia. I know you will love these books.) We rested and called family--but we were starting to get very anxious.
By 6:30 pm they said it was time to start pitocin. I was a little nervous that I wouldn't be able to handle the pain with such a strong drug--but I had faith...and I was so anxious to meet you. They started me on the lowest dose and nothing happened. At 7 they upped it more--still nothing. 7 thirty--a higher dose. WHERE ARE YOU PETER? 8 o'clock--an even higher dose.
And now for a confession. We turned on the TV my son. Mommy was so bored. We watched a show that will probably be long gone by the time you are old enough to read this--American Idol. Please forgive me. And don't tell anyone. I wanted this to be a very sacred and special experience. We wanted to feel the presence of your sweet sister, along with your incredible spirit straight from our Heavenly Home--and American Idol was not the most conducive medium for such an experience. But it passed the time and kept my mind occupied. Mommy always wanted to be on that show, but now I'm too old. My dreams lie with my children.
The pitocin was turned up one last time and the second we turned off the television at 9 p.m. I finally felt some pain worth talking about. It was so exciting and gave us so much hope. Daddy rushed to my side and I rested on him for a few good contractions. They had me crawl back into bed a while later and said I was almost to a 7. At this point the pain really kicked in. Mommy was scared for a little while. But daddy held my hand and talked me through it all. The midwife came back in and helped daddy coach me. I asked for an epidural at one point and daddy gently reminded me that I would heal so much better without it. That a natural birth is something I've been wanting for a long time. I was so tired I just gave up at this point---but in a good way. I just surrendered. I just breathed deep through each contraction, closed my eyes and didn't say a word. I was welcoming the pain in order to welcome you into our lives. I started sweating, then shaking, but all the while I was focused on your daddy, on you, and on our angel Lucy.
What seemed like moments later, I felt the urge to push. The midwife reminded me that I could talk if I wanted to--but I had nothing to say--and no energy to say it with. So I did what she said and started moaning. It was the best advice in that moment. It took me a bit to get your head out, but by this point I knew you were minutes away from my arms. I was receiving strength beyond my own. When your little body was entirely out, it was the most empowering feeling I have ever had in my life. I had done it. I had achieved my goal. I made it through the awful pain and in an instant it was all forgotten. You were there, you were mine. I have never been more proud of myself. This is how I hope to feel when your sister is in my arms again. So much pain endured, so much grit and suffering and waiting and wondering--all to be forgotten in an instant. And hopefully I'll be told, "Well done."
Unfortunately, the cord was around your neck as you came out. They cut it quickly, suctioned you, and started stimulating you. I just closed my eyes and prayed as fervently and intensely as I had the moment your sister started choking. When you finally let out a cry--so did your daddy and I. It was as beautiful as the last time I heard Lucy's laugh. Our hearts broke all over again--but this time in a different way.
The nurse and midwife praised me. I was on such a high. Your daddy and I aren't perfect, but we make a perfect team. I turned to daddy, and with a sudden realization and feeling of empowerment and capability, I said through my tears--" I am capable of hard things."
I am capable of hard things. And so are you. This life won't always give you what you expect and what you want. But there will be moments of sheer joy and moments of accomplishment after much working and waiting that will whisper to you that there is always hope.
We now have two Easter miracles. The incredible miracle that Christ died and was resurrected so that we will all live again. And the miracle of your birth son, just three days before Easter, reminding your daddy and I that we too, can live fully again in this life--with hope and love and moments of peace after the storm. Thank you for bringing new life into our hearts again. You are a perfect little baby. Exactly what Heavenly Father knew we needed. So sweet. So soft. So tender and quiet. You look so much like your sister. I have a feeling she instructed you well and told you to be gentle to us.
I love you, Son. I will try to be the best mother I can for you. Welcome, welcome to this wonderful world. You are truly a miracle.
(Please note that my blog design and content in the menu bar is still being tweaked and updated. I will have that Park City guide ready nex...
I've been harassing my Instagram followers to subscribe to the podcast "Kind World". Guyzzz...IT'S WONDERFUL. Full ...
Hello, Friends! I'm still here. Do people still read this? Here's what we've been up to: -Sponsoring a refugee family in Syr...
Gently wiping that snot off your face. Routine. Nothing special. Inconvenient, even Now, a longed-for privilege Stretchin...