For the past month I have been circling the shallow end of the Olympic-sized pool that is Teaching Art. I found myself there by way of invitation, an invitation from a friend who barely knows me, not this me, anyway, and scarcely knows my background in teaching.
I am terrified.
I am also exhilarated in a manner I haven't been in a long, long, long time. It's difficult to wrap my head around and even process the magnitude of this endeavor and what it means for me as a person. I don't consider much for my person. I have several other people I consider on a daily, minute by minute, basis and still end up failing on the regular. Add to that small list eight students and one teacher/founder of a fledgling private academy and we've got a big old heap of shit for me to fuck up. This could be disastrous, I'm afraid. It could also be the clarity, the future, the prospect I have been praying for (or not praying for, more regularly wishing for).
Two classes in and I am finding myself an old and semi-wise mother figure, less so a teacher. Those skills were never honed, unfortunately, I quit far before I should have given up and quite frankly, I'm afraid I'm going to do the exact same thing with far greater consequences this time. Back then, it was only me. I only had myself to blame (and I did/do) and I only had to walk away. Now I have a whole audience watching and waiting for me to take off and I'm puttering along like a jalopy. I'm definitely out of shape.
There is SO much to dig through. There is SO SO SO SO much to relearn and add in and expand upon that I'm almost in it fulltime - something I am only recognizing just at this moment - that if I am to garner anything from this experience, it is going to have to come to me in full throttle, full-on art immersion... something I am completely unprepared for.
Or am I?
Am I not in desperate need of something new? Am I not just drowning in pessimism and self flagellating self martyrdom? YES, I am. SO, when do I wake the fuck up and get on with it already? I need shock treatment.
Begin. Please begin to be today, Betsy. Please wake up and get moving.
September 07, 2016
July 18, 2016
This weekend I took aim at controlling my thoughts. It worked to some extent, but probably not if you were to ask at least one person I live with.
I'll be in Louisville this week to work with mom at the KASA conference. Two nights, three days of blissful alone time. I look forward to taking long showers, planning for the school year, and walking around naked.
I'll be in Louisville this week to work with mom at the KASA conference. Two nights, three days of blissful alone time. I look forward to taking long showers, planning for the school year, and walking around naked.
July 13, 2016
The Ache
At this point, the ache is familiar. Too familiar.
The ache takes too many liberties, makes itself too comfortable and threatens to ruin a day, a week, a month of my life.
And then the ache leaves. Packs its bags and pulls away from the curb and leaves us all here dumbfounded.
I've had a revelation. I had only considered my own insufferable ache in so much that it bothered other people, it bothered me, and it could (theoretically) be stifled by this or that.
This or that being any combination of medicine or counseling.
But everybody has an ache and not everybody resorts to finding the source of it at the core of their being.
My two year old aches.
He aches when we've spent the whole weekend holed up in the hole of a house watching Netflix. He aches when I bring him home and plop him in front of the tv to spend some time with his second babysitter of the day while I make a mediocre dinner of which I'm not proud. That meal doesn't matter much to him, he'll eat cheese and an apple again, but I'll feel the insufferable ache of failing something simple like dinner and he'll feel the ache of mama being in the kitchen while Curious George watches him and makes sure he doesn't do something curious.
My older children ache for fresh air and conversation. They ache and don't know it. One day I'm afraid they'll look back at these years as the 'tablet years', when they were consumed by screen time and the people on Youtube were their only friends.
And I've settled in with this ache, made it comfy and amenable. It's okay for mama to be disenchanted with everything and it's supposed to be magical when you figure out what makes your mom happy. It's supposed to go like this: Friday night, mama lets her hair down, puts on her pajamas after work and sits on the couch with us. For once she demands we watch what she wants to watch and she appears to genuinely enjoy it. And we do too. We enjoy it because she enjoys it and we enjoy our time with her.
...
And in that brief moment(s), there's a comfort that is natural and breathable.
But it's retracted before it's fully savored. Drawn back into a hardness, a quiet anger, and the dissatisfied line of a soft mouth. The ache is back.
I wish that I could make a difference. Like, sit on a ball at my desk instead of a chair. Wear crocs instead of flip-flops. Eat like I should.
I wish I could save enough money not to worry. I wish I could budget so that there's money for gas when the time comes and I don't find that I've spent the last $10 on a dinner box from McDonalds.
You feel the ache too. I know you do. But, why don't we talk about it? Why is there no one to talk to anymore? I stand by the water cooler, but no one is there making jokes about Borat. Everyone is behind closed doors and looking at Facebook. I sit at the kitchen table, but no one is sitting there looking at a book or eating a snack. Everyone is plugged into something and ignoring real life.
I wish I could make a difference. Like, determine tv watching hours at home and chore charts and reward systems. Make my children set the table. Have reading time before bed. Do yoga?
...
The ache is a constant sense of fear, a sense of longing. It's sour and smells a little. It's just warm enough to be uncomfortable to the touch and just humid enough to make me sweat. (The ache sounds like a yeast infection.)
Sometimes I still laugh. Sometimes I still look at the world and feel a sense of wonder and gratitude. Enough to not be lost, trailing off after the ache when it comes. But the dissatisfied line of a soft mouth returns and I have to pick up my lip so as not to trip on it once again.
Just as I always have done.
When you identify with something like Depression, you find a way allow it to permeate the core of your being. This is my fault. I was born like this. I am destined for a life of seeking respite, seeking care, seeking help and never actually finding it. When the ache comes a knockin', I just open the door.
No, the ache has a key. And welcome or not, a place to sleep, eat, and bathe itself.
I came back here (it's been two years since I lingered on this blog) for a place to write it down. While I do feel better about having expressed something, there's a nagging feeling at the back of my brain letting me know I've not progressed beyond the confines of what depression is trying to do to me. There's no trigger for this to be happening. Nothing is wrong. The dust has kicked up a little here recently, but nothing major. That last pap smear was normal. He didn't lose his job. We sold the car. Leftovers for lunch wasn't bad. I simply cannot escape it even though I know I'm not justified in any way to be feeling like a sad sack of shit.
I wish I could take her, kicking and screaming though she may be, and push her up on the precipice, make her look out on it all and pull her hair back and slither into her ear and take over her brain. WAKE UP! TELL THAT 'ACHE' TO EAT SHIT AND DIE! WE NEED YOU. THEY NEED YOU.
When being complacent and cold is your answer to being scared shitless, you've gone woefully wrong. You've chosen the wrong path, my dear. That path's been traveled many times and it's easy and it's not scary - and your heart is scratching at the confines of the ache and is seething in deprivation because it's a warm heart, an electric heart, a living, beating, breathing thing and you've squandered it. You've let the ache win again, but you've lied and said you had it under control.
Because boring looks safer than living with what you dreamed of.
The ache takes too many liberties, makes itself too comfortable and threatens to ruin a day, a week, a month of my life.
And then the ache leaves. Packs its bags and pulls away from the curb and leaves us all here dumbfounded.
I've had a revelation. I had only considered my own insufferable ache in so much that it bothered other people, it bothered me, and it could (theoretically) be stifled by this or that.
This or that being any combination of medicine or counseling.
But everybody has an ache and not everybody resorts to finding the source of it at the core of their being.
My two year old aches.
He aches when we've spent the whole weekend holed up in the hole of a house watching Netflix. He aches when I bring him home and plop him in front of the tv to spend some time with his second babysitter of the day while I make a mediocre dinner of which I'm not proud. That meal doesn't matter much to him, he'll eat cheese and an apple again, but I'll feel the insufferable ache of failing something simple like dinner and he'll feel the ache of mama being in the kitchen while Curious George watches him and makes sure he doesn't do something curious.
My older children ache for fresh air and conversation. They ache and don't know it. One day I'm afraid they'll look back at these years as the 'tablet years', when they were consumed by screen time and the people on Youtube were their only friends.
And I've settled in with this ache, made it comfy and amenable. It's okay for mama to be disenchanted with everything and it's supposed to be magical when you figure out what makes your mom happy. It's supposed to go like this: Friday night, mama lets her hair down, puts on her pajamas after work and sits on the couch with us. For once she demands we watch what she wants to watch and she appears to genuinely enjoy it. And we do too. We enjoy it because she enjoys it and we enjoy our time with her.
...
And in that brief moment(s), there's a comfort that is natural and breathable.
But it's retracted before it's fully savored. Drawn back into a hardness, a quiet anger, and the dissatisfied line of a soft mouth. The ache is back.
I wish that I could make a difference. Like, sit on a ball at my desk instead of a chair. Wear crocs instead of flip-flops. Eat like I should.
I wish I could save enough money not to worry. I wish I could budget so that there's money for gas when the time comes and I don't find that I've spent the last $10 on a dinner box from McDonalds.
You feel the ache too. I know you do. But, why don't we talk about it? Why is there no one to talk to anymore? I stand by the water cooler, but no one is there making jokes about Borat. Everyone is behind closed doors and looking at Facebook. I sit at the kitchen table, but no one is sitting there looking at a book or eating a snack. Everyone is plugged into something and ignoring real life.
I wish I could make a difference. Like, determine tv watching hours at home and chore charts and reward systems. Make my children set the table. Have reading time before bed. Do yoga?
...
The ache is a constant sense of fear, a sense of longing. It's sour and smells a little. It's just warm enough to be uncomfortable to the touch and just humid enough to make me sweat. (The ache sounds like a yeast infection.)
Sometimes I still laugh. Sometimes I still look at the world and feel a sense of wonder and gratitude. Enough to not be lost, trailing off after the ache when it comes. But the dissatisfied line of a soft mouth returns and I have to pick up my lip so as not to trip on it once again.
Just as I always have done.
When you identify with something like Depression, you find a way allow it to permeate the core of your being. This is my fault. I was born like this. I am destined for a life of seeking respite, seeking care, seeking help and never actually finding it. When the ache comes a knockin', I just open the door.
No, the ache has a key. And welcome or not, a place to sleep, eat, and bathe itself.
I came back here (it's been two years since I lingered on this blog) for a place to write it down. While I do feel better about having expressed something, there's a nagging feeling at the back of my brain letting me know I've not progressed beyond the confines of what depression is trying to do to me. There's no trigger for this to be happening. Nothing is wrong. The dust has kicked up a little here recently, but nothing major. That last pap smear was normal. He didn't lose his job. We sold the car. Leftovers for lunch wasn't bad. I simply cannot escape it even though I know I'm not justified in any way to be feeling like a sad sack of shit.
I wish I could take her, kicking and screaming though she may be, and push her up on the precipice, make her look out on it all and pull her hair back and slither into her ear and take over her brain. WAKE UP! TELL THAT 'ACHE' TO EAT SHIT AND DIE! WE NEED YOU. THEY NEED YOU.
When being complacent and cold is your answer to being scared shitless, you've gone woefully wrong. You've chosen the wrong path, my dear. That path's been traveled many times and it's easy and it's not scary - and your heart is scratching at the confines of the ache and is seething in deprivation because it's a warm heart, an electric heart, a living, beating, breathing thing and you've squandered it. You've let the ache win again, but you've lied and said you had it under control.
Because boring looks safer than living with what you dreamed of.
October 07, 2014
My Babies
.JPG)
I mean it like I mean most things I say, but more so. I am thriving.
Maybe it's the happy pills, but this time I think it's not. This time I think I'll keep taking them and consider it staying healthy... because there are three very good reasons to stay healthy. Three people for whom I care a great deal.
And that guy I married.
He's kind of the reason I have all this.
I should probably start loving him better.
So, I read this Bible verse every day. It's on my desk on a little card holder that holds a stack of my co-worker's favorite verses. I think you should really only have a handful of favorite verses, because really how many can you really connect to, but this lady has 365.
1 Corinthians 13:4-7 - "Love is patient, love is kind and is not jealous; love does not brag and is not arrogant, does not act unbecomingly; it does not seek its own, is not provoked, does not take into account a wrong suffered, does not rejoice in unrighteousness, but rejoices with the truth; bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things."
This is helping me love in a greater way, a way beyond myself. And this has been a very good thing.
I am making pottery again. Four pieces. For nice pieces. I have about 12 to be bisque fired and probably 8 at the shop to be glazed. If I get my panties unclenched, I might make it down there and get some sold for Christmas money or Christmas presents. We're talking about giving this year instead of getting. We're considering what it will take to buy a used van in better shape than ours which was gifted to us. We are so lucky. We are so blessed. I need to be dishing the blessings out left and right this year to make up for what 2014 was for me. I want to do that. I am trying hard to do it.
Girl Scouts is going along very well. My Vivi has shown me just how important it is to her. Her behavior had gotten out of control. My emotional little Cancer was showing her ass at every turn and basically being as nasty as she could to everybody. We held her priorities over her and she responded. I am so proud of her. And I am so proud that what I have done for her (and myself) is actually important to her. So, we added about six girls to the troop and I am following through by pre-planning meetings and figuring out what badges we can earn and how to do it in a fun, engaging way. It has been rewarding. I am grateful for Girl Scouts.
My husband is a rock star. The band has the capacity to go much farther than this small town. I am proud of him, I am excited to be married to him, and I am committed to him playing as much as he can. The timing is right.
I'm done dishing.
September 09, 2014
Elliott Wilder Nickens: Part 3
The intensity of pushing, the need to push a living, breathing being out of your body is indescribable. I could see his head crowning. I could hear Kale, my mom, the nurse coaching me to push, push, push. I could sense the end of my pregnancy, the final chapter of it coming to an end, and the beginning of something coming. I didn't want to stop pushing.
The nurse said, "Call Dr. Cambell!" It's time." And she told me to stop. He was there in a matter of moments, with his scrubs and a bag for the placenta. His familiar voice was comforting and I suddenly felt in control of the situation. My body, my baby, and I had come together to say NOW. And in a heartbeat (or two), there he was! Head, shoulders, belly, legs... and a very short umbilical cord. So short, in fact, Kale had to make the cut before Elliott could be placed on my chest. I am not surprised by our closeness and I do consider it that - the short cord and the closeness of our bond. My baby.
We were together for just a minute or two before he was whisked away to the side for suctioning. He wasn't taking in air deeply enough and was taken to the NICU for monitoring. I was grateful that Kale went along and took video of that time. I remember laying there, pleased, grateful, proud, happy as ever, watching my little bear being taken care of, words from everyone all around but none of it registering.
It seemed like immediately after, my family was ushered in. Time passed and I was able to stand and with the help of a nurse I cleaned myself off (I was surprised that I was able to do this on my own). Somehow giving birth had been easy. EASY.
I am a goddess among men.
My baby Elliott Wilder is healthy, very happy, and the best behaved little bear. We are whole.
The nurse said, "Call Dr. Cambell!" It's time." And she told me to stop. He was there in a matter of moments, with his scrubs and a bag for the placenta. His familiar voice was comforting and I suddenly felt in control of the situation. My body, my baby, and I had come together to say NOW. And in a heartbeat (or two), there he was! Head, shoulders, belly, legs... and a very short umbilical cord. So short, in fact, Kale had to make the cut before Elliott could be placed on my chest. I am not surprised by our closeness and I do consider it that - the short cord and the closeness of our bond. My baby.
We were together for just a minute or two before he was whisked away to the side for suctioning. He wasn't taking in air deeply enough and was taken to the NICU for monitoring. I was grateful that Kale went along and took video of that time. I remember laying there, pleased, grateful, proud, happy as ever, watching my little bear being taken care of, words from everyone all around but none of it registering.
It seemed like immediately after, my family was ushered in. Time passed and I was able to stand and with the help of a nurse I cleaned myself off (I was surprised that I was able to do this on my own). Somehow giving birth had been easy. EASY.
I am a goddess among men.
My baby Elliott Wilder is healthy, very happy, and the best behaved little bear. We are whole.
August 26, 2014
Elliott Wilder Nickens: Part 2
Sometimes now I get intense pain in upper part of my back and chest. I wonder if it has to do with the epidural, but I can't find anything to support that. I try to breathe through the pain like did with the contractions, but I can't seem to find the zone that gives me control over it. It makes the miracle of labor seem that much more miraculous and my body that much more spectacular. It hurts, though, and I don't know what is causing it. It happens when I am stressed.
I guess we were watching Frasier during the epidural and in the hours afterward. I don't really remember. I believe I slept through part of the afternoon. When my mom and dad arrived, though, I was beginning to feel pain again and I was shivering uncontrollably. The pain was more than I could manage, the epidural was wearing off, and I had not been managing any contractions up to that point. I was at nine centimeters, the epidural had been put in at six or seven. I remember wanting my parents to leave. The happy, calm period of my labor was over. I needed Kale's full attention and I needed a nurse to tell me what was happening. The nurse gave mom some ice chips, which she fed to me, and I had too many on an empty stomach. I puked again. This was worst sensation, puking, contracting, not being able to lift myself in the bed or turn, the feeling in my left leg coming back, cramping, wanting everyone to leave, needing a hug, feeling like something was wrong and being told there is not.
A shift change brought us a new nurse, who showed me the magical button that released more of the epidural. Instantly, I felt relief. It was ridiculous. I was furious at the previous nurse and the doctor who placed the epidural. They mentioned the button, but I was too aloof to ask about until it was too late. It seemed like an option they hadn't given me, so I didn't ask about it. I was able to use the release three times before I reached 10 centimeters.
The room was cleared out, my daddy went to the lobby. Kale, of course would stay. My mom asked if she could be there. I am her only daughter who gave birth naturally. I am so happy she asked and she stayed. The lower half of the bed was removed, bright lights were turned on and spotlit me. Kale stood on my right side and my mom on my left, supporting my feet in the stirrups and pushing them into me while I pushed through contractions.
At first I could not figure out when I was contracting. The epidural had made me lose the connection, but the nurse would watch the monitor and tell me when to push. I watched too and slowly began to feel my body again. Determining how to push, what muscles to use, how to keep going and not back off, and how to relax between contractions was intense. The contractions were definitely rhythmic and coming faster, lasting longer. But nothing hurt. The intensity of pushing, the intensity of labor and the involuntary, unstoppable course my body was taking without my control without an epidural must be excrutiating. And scary. I pooped. I pooped maybe three times. I was mortified. I wanted to stop immediately, but no one cared - they laughed. I probably pooped more than I realize. I don't care anymore.
Pushing, pushing, pushing to the count of 10. I stopped at 8 or 9 more often than not. There was barely time to let my breath out between contractions, but I needed the respite. Kale would come and put his body over mine to hug me and I could let it out. When he counted, I could push for longer. HE was my coach. I am so in love with him and his role as my partner and a father.
The spotlights caused a reflection in the light above me and I could see myself completely and in full color. I could see the nurse's hands stretching and turning, feeling for his face. I am not sure if she was turning him and wasn't telling us. I could see when his head crowned, I knew that small patch of his head first, that patch that was bruised and swollen when I held him later. Seeing him there, I could connect the right kind of pushing and begin to make progress. There was lots of coaching and support all around. I felt strong. I felt important. I felt dignified. I felt loved. I felt good.
And then, all of a sudden I didn't want to stop pushing.
I guess we were watching Frasier during the epidural and in the hours afterward. I don't really remember. I believe I slept through part of the afternoon. When my mom and dad arrived, though, I was beginning to feel pain again and I was shivering uncontrollably. The pain was more than I could manage, the epidural was wearing off, and I had not been managing any contractions up to that point. I was at nine centimeters, the epidural had been put in at six or seven. I remember wanting my parents to leave. The happy, calm period of my labor was over. I needed Kale's full attention and I needed a nurse to tell me what was happening. The nurse gave mom some ice chips, which she fed to me, and I had too many on an empty stomach. I puked again. This was worst sensation, puking, contracting, not being able to lift myself in the bed or turn, the feeling in my left leg coming back, cramping, wanting everyone to leave, needing a hug, feeling like something was wrong and being told there is not.
A shift change brought us a new nurse, who showed me the magical button that released more of the epidural. Instantly, I felt relief. It was ridiculous. I was furious at the previous nurse and the doctor who placed the epidural. They mentioned the button, but I was too aloof to ask about until it was too late. It seemed like an option they hadn't given me, so I didn't ask about it. I was able to use the release three times before I reached 10 centimeters.
The room was cleared out, my daddy went to the lobby. Kale, of course would stay. My mom asked if she could be there. I am her only daughter who gave birth naturally. I am so happy she asked and she stayed. The lower half of the bed was removed, bright lights were turned on and spotlit me. Kale stood on my right side and my mom on my left, supporting my feet in the stirrups and pushing them into me while I pushed through contractions.
At first I could not figure out when I was contracting. The epidural had made me lose the connection, but the nurse would watch the monitor and tell me when to push. I watched too and slowly began to feel my body again. Determining how to push, what muscles to use, how to keep going and not back off, and how to relax between contractions was intense. The contractions were definitely rhythmic and coming faster, lasting longer. But nothing hurt. The intensity of pushing, the intensity of labor and the involuntary, unstoppable course my body was taking without my control without an epidural must be excrutiating. And scary. I pooped. I pooped maybe three times. I was mortified. I wanted to stop immediately, but no one cared - they laughed. I probably pooped more than I realize. I don't care anymore.
Pushing, pushing, pushing to the count of 10. I stopped at 8 or 9 more often than not. There was barely time to let my breath out between contractions, but I needed the respite. Kale would come and put his body over mine to hug me and I could let it out. When he counted, I could push for longer. HE was my coach. I am so in love with him and his role as my partner and a father.
The spotlights caused a reflection in the light above me and I could see myself completely and in full color. I could see the nurse's hands stretching and turning, feeling for his face. I am not sure if she was turning him and wasn't telling us. I could see when his head crowned, I knew that small patch of his head first, that patch that was bruised and swollen when I held him later. Seeing him there, I could connect the right kind of pushing and begin to make progress. There was lots of coaching and support all around. I felt strong. I felt important. I felt dignified. I felt loved. I felt good.
And then, all of a sudden I didn't want to stop pushing.
August 07, 2014
Elliott Wilder Nickens Part 1
June 15th, 2014, around 7:30 pm, Kale and I left our home, left Vivi and Lynden with Trent and Anna, and went Wendy's (of all places - Kale "hates" Wendy's). I had a Frosty. I wasn't supposed to eat ice cream, but I deserved a treat. I was on my way to the hospital to give birth to our son.
We arrived at The Women's Hospital and were taken to our delivery room. I changed into my gown and we settled in with the Nabi tablet for the evening. I was given something that dissolved under my tongue to help my cervix begin to soften. A while later, I started to feel a familiar crampy feeling like menstrual cramps. We watched the second season of Orange is the New Black. Kale slept on a blue couch. I slept on my side, as usual. (I miss my big belly full of baby.)
At 6:00 am on June 16th, Dr. Campbell arrived and checked my cervix. He also deftly broke my water. It was a gush I wasn't expecting, he didn't tell me he was about to do it. That gush was a trigger. That's when Elliott and I agreed it was go time. They started a drip of Pitocin to make my cervix dilate and from that point on it went like clockwork (the same way he wakes on the hour when it's time to eat, my little clockwork man).
We watched I Love Lucy and I was comfortable. I can't remember when I recognized the contractions were coming. I don't think he and I ever timed them, we just waited until the magic number 10 arrived, but they were consistent and rhythmic and Kale was by my side. When he needed breakfast he had to leave the hospital. I can't remember what he ate, I couldn't eat. I had ice chips and that was enough.
Later in the morning, around the time we were watching Bob Ross paint a landscape, I asked for pain medication and was given Stadall (?). They warned me it would make me feel drunk, which I thought I might enjoy. I did not. Kale may have been gone for lunch at this point. I rang for the nurse because my blood pressure cuff had malfunctioned and an alarm was going off. When she came in she said that what I had said during the call had made no sense. I may have fallen asleep after that... or maybe I called before I slept. When the drug wore off, at any rate, I was nauseous and the nurse gave me apple juice. I remember needing to pee, getting myself and my IV stand into the bathroom, and puking up juice while contracting. My blood sugar was low and the drug had made me sick. I was ready for an epidural at 5 centimeters.
We were watching Frasier when I was finally able to receive the epidural. When I requested it, I was told it would be an hour or more. Another woman was delivering twins and the doctor was unable to see me. I was okay with sustaining the contractions for a while longer. With Kale holding my hand, I felt like I was holding back a tsunami, at a great battle, chasing off wild bears, defending a castle wall. I felt invincible and still very vulnerable. Between the contractions, which I sustained through hee-hee-hooooos, all I needed was his touch to fully relax and prepare for the next. This was healing for us. This was something I will never take for granted. I could only do this with the man I love and who loves me.
I sat on the edge of the bed for the epidural. They raised it up high and Kale and the nurse stood in front of me to support me as I hugged a pillow to remain still. When the drugs hit my bloodstream, I felt a jolt of electricity in my right leg. This leg stayed numb and felt like a giant plank of wood through all of the delivery. Keeping calm and still with a needle in your spine while your uterus contracts is very difficult. I contracted three times before it was over. Using my arms to move the rest of my body was aggravating from then on. I was relieved, at least for a little while, from pain.
I can't describe the pain. I can see myself out of body now experiencing it, but I can't describe it. It was involuntary and uncontrollable. My body was doing something I could only breathe through, I could not soothe myself in any other way. It would not stop until the job was done. I find that miraculous and I am very, very proud of myself. In a big way. Good job, me.
We arrived at The Women's Hospital and were taken to our delivery room. I changed into my gown and we settled in with the Nabi tablet for the evening. I was given something that dissolved under my tongue to help my cervix begin to soften. A while later, I started to feel a familiar crampy feeling like menstrual cramps. We watched the second season of Orange is the New Black. Kale slept on a blue couch. I slept on my side, as usual. (I miss my big belly full of baby.)
At 6:00 am on June 16th, Dr. Campbell arrived and checked my cervix. He also deftly broke my water. It was a gush I wasn't expecting, he didn't tell me he was about to do it. That gush was a trigger. That's when Elliott and I agreed it was go time. They started a drip of Pitocin to make my cervix dilate and from that point on it went like clockwork (the same way he wakes on the hour when it's time to eat, my little clockwork man).
We watched I Love Lucy and I was comfortable. I can't remember when I recognized the contractions were coming. I don't think he and I ever timed them, we just waited until the magic number 10 arrived, but they were consistent and rhythmic and Kale was by my side. When he needed breakfast he had to leave the hospital. I can't remember what he ate, I couldn't eat. I had ice chips and that was enough.
Later in the morning, around the time we were watching Bob Ross paint a landscape, I asked for pain medication and was given Stadall (?). They warned me it would make me feel drunk, which I thought I might enjoy. I did not. Kale may have been gone for lunch at this point. I rang for the nurse because my blood pressure cuff had malfunctioned and an alarm was going off. When she came in she said that what I had said during the call had made no sense. I may have fallen asleep after that... or maybe I called before I slept. When the drug wore off, at any rate, I was nauseous and the nurse gave me apple juice. I remember needing to pee, getting myself and my IV stand into the bathroom, and puking up juice while contracting. My blood sugar was low and the drug had made me sick. I was ready for an epidural at 5 centimeters.
We were watching Frasier when I was finally able to receive the epidural. When I requested it, I was told it would be an hour or more. Another woman was delivering twins and the doctor was unable to see me. I was okay with sustaining the contractions for a while longer. With Kale holding my hand, I felt like I was holding back a tsunami, at a great battle, chasing off wild bears, defending a castle wall. I felt invincible and still very vulnerable. Between the contractions, which I sustained through hee-hee-hooooos, all I needed was his touch to fully relax and prepare for the next. This was healing for us. This was something I will never take for granted. I could only do this with the man I love and who loves me.
I sat on the edge of the bed for the epidural. They raised it up high and Kale and the nurse stood in front of me to support me as I hugged a pillow to remain still. When the drugs hit my bloodstream, I felt a jolt of electricity in my right leg. This leg stayed numb and felt like a giant plank of wood through all of the delivery. Keeping calm and still with a needle in your spine while your uterus contracts is very difficult. I contracted three times before it was over. Using my arms to move the rest of my body was aggravating from then on. I was relieved, at least for a little while, from pain.
I can't describe the pain. I can see myself out of body now experiencing it, but I can't describe it. It was involuntary and uncontrollable. My body was doing something I could only breathe through, I could not soothe myself in any other way. It would not stop until the job was done. I find that miraculous and I am very, very proud of myself. In a big way. Good job, me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
LinkWithin
