Ebb and Flow, Stop and Start, Sprint and Crawl

I've been meaning to write for days, but Valentine's Day has thrown me for a loop. My little home bakery (i.e. myself) put out over 10 dozen cookies over the course of 4 days. That is the busiest I have ever been. Hence, everything else fell off the wagon. Laundry, diet, gym, sleep, spiritual journey…sort of collecting dust. I felt like I was getting nowhere, when I did a quick visit to Curandera. I told her what I had accomplished (which felt like nothing) when she told me that progress sometimes comes in spurts and stops. She reaffirmed how proud she was of me for doing this work. She told me to be gentler with myself.

So, now that the rush is over and I can breathe, I can get back to the purpose.

Highlights on actions that I have taken so far since last we met:

• I am been working to touch my scar.
• Several trips to the gym, and some improvements in diet.
• Called the hospital in an attempt to get my medical records. Gotten a weird voicemail twice and no return call. Grrr.
• I have purchased all the ingredients recommended by my Urban Curandera to do castor oil packs.
• I did my first home castor oil pack last night. 

The idea and mechanism behind the castor oil pack is that it breaks up and softens the scars both internally and externally. They are really easy to do and relatively inexpensive. For an in-depth look at scar healing, you can check out Curandera's workshop here.

The pack itself was fine, again it was the after effects seemed to hit me hard. I have been chatting with Curandera to see what she thinks is going on.

I felt a real looseness in my pelvic floor, somewhat painful, but mostly just a feeling of weakness or low tone. Sitting up and standing up straight posed some difficulty, as well as lifting Lollipop out of her crib. Lifting my 40 lb toddler is almost out of the question. The best way to describe the sensation is that it feels like my uterus just might fall out of my vagina. Not in a bulging or pushing sort of way, but in a heavy weight sort of way.

Curnadera suggested that perhaps the castor oil is doing its job, breaking up the scar and adhesions that had been holding my uterus in its current position. As a result, my pelvic floor muscles (or lack there of) are having to take over, and they are showing me just how weak they are.

The feeling has persisted all day, and then as the day wore on a second symptom popped up: PHANTOM KICKS!

I had heard about phantom kicks before, but I had blown the idea off. Surely it was just mom's that missed being pregnant, or decided not to have another and trying to connect with a past fond memory.

I'm here to tell you they are REAL. Mine have been sporadic in both timing and activity I am doing when the occur. I was reading that they are thought to be the uterus having contractions, trying to get back into its normal shape. Again, the castor oil pack could have helped that, I'm sure.

I've been trying to take it easy tonight en lieu of how weak my mid section feels.

Tomorrow is the Red Tent in our area. I'm both looking forward to it and really nervous. I'm afraid about what might come up. Doula encouraged me to bring a notebook to draw or mediate on my labyrinth. A lot of birth traumas are sure to come up, and I am very sensitive to it. There could be women that talk about their births with a history of sexual abuse. I cannot even watch a movie that has a rape scene it without being upset about it for months. The small "PG-13" rape scene in the teen lit movie, Divergent, bothered me for weeks. I don't know how to explain it other than that I am very sensitive. My emotions are very close to the surface at all times. I can cry over a moving song or a poignant commercial. It's hard to strike them from my mind later. I replay them over and over in my head.

I'm hoping my determination doesn't waver. The weather is poor, and I'm looking for excuses not to go. I thought Doula was going, but she will be attending a workshop instead. We promised to meet up afterwards to discuss it. I'm holding myself to that. Time to take another step forward and breathe.

Cut, Stapled, on the Mend?

I was approximately six weeks postpartum when I finally broke down and asked my doula to come for her postpartum visit. She had been asking me since week two to come, and I just couldn't bear it. I had been delaying this visit as long as rationally possible. I anticipated a judgmental tone, a "you let us all down" undertone to the whole meeting. I just couldn't face her.

When it finally became embarrassingly far out from my delivery date, I couldn't stall any longer. She had other clients to see, loose ends to tie up. She stopped by on a hot summer day, quiet and thoughtful.  She asked me how I was feeling, but she didn't need glasses to see through the pleasantries I was offering. I was in bad shape and she knew it. There was nowhere to hide.

She started off delicately, sticking to the "factual" type details of the visit: "How's the baby feeding?" "Are you feeling any pain?""Any concerns?"I tossed her a bone: "the baby spits up a lot, it's kind of worrisome." After that exchange, she stepped up to the plate, boldly stepping into the fire:

"How are you doing?"

"I'm okay."

"Mmmhmmm…?

"You know, kind of having a hard time." I said nonchalantly with a shrug. I couldn't look into her eyes. She knew. She knew I was a total mess. She looked at me expectantly, waiting…the silence was cacophonous.

Before I knew it, words were tumbling out faster than I string them together. The tears flooded my face. I cried that pitiful cry; the one where you're gasping for air as you try to talk. And she let me. She let me fill the space with my sadness, anger, and shame. Then, I was holding back something. Things that I'm not sure I am even ready to write.

I worried she secretly resented me as a client, no matter gentle and attentive she was coming across. At the time, I can say that this silent presentness upset me very much. It was like a friendly tabby, quietly sitting in the corner watching, listening, an occasional flick of the tail. The eyes are watching thoughtfully, the ears listening attentively, but what does that tail flick mean?

I didn't want a quiet, thoughtful response. I didn't want space. I needed someone to catch me. I was drowning, but I couldn't ask for a life preserver. I should have told her, but I didn't. I couldn't be any more pitiful than what she was already witnessing. So, I just shut it down. Numbness, information seeking, compartmentalizing.

Self preservation.

One of the first things she recommended was reading "Cut, Stapled, and Mended", which she confessed would be a difficult read. I dutifully wrote down the title and scrawled "difficult to read" next to it on a scrap of paper from an old spiral notebook.

This scrap of paper has been beckoning from the junk drawer for 7 months. Every time I picked it up, my hastily scribbled note scared me away. The scrap went back into the drawer, back into the dark. Another time, another day perhaps.

After my previous post, putting it out there for the world to see, I very well couldn't back down. To the drawer, out comes the paper. The search was on, the book ordered. This was Monday.

Today is Friday, and guess what folks:

BAM!

Truth be told, I liked it. It was a quick, candid read. It felt authentic, real. Half of the words were the very same that I had shared with others about my own negative birth experiences. All I could do was nod along as Roanna chronicled her sadness, her desperation for answers, her trials and failures. She went to extreme measures, even beyond what I think most would consider Eastern or homeopathic measures to achieve her goal. Without giving too much away, she knew what she had done did not work the first or second time, but undeterred she kept trying. Kept growing.

A question formed in my head: "Why did my doula have me read this?" Was she trying to tell me I needed to resort to the extremes that Roanna did? (drinking frog extract, seeing a psychic, boiling a root for 30 days and drinking the tea it produced, taping magnets to my body) Or was it simpler?

Well I asked her today over coffee. Her simple answer was: "I wanted you to know it could be done."
Simple as that. Did I have to go through all Roanna's extremes. No. But it is important to know what my personal limits are, and then take it to that level. That way, I can tell myself, as Roanna did, "I did everything I could."

I'm frustrated that I didn't do this sooner. The book was not the big, bad, scary beast I thought it was. Although, it might have been the day, the week, the month after my doula's visit. She told me she could see a change in me, one that I cannot yet see. Maybe this is a sign, a sign to keep on going. To try the next hardest step.

Maybe it's time to talk about Lollipop's birth…well, at least try to talk about it while I tackle, "The Labyrinth of Birth." It serendipitously arrived on my front porch this very afternoon.

The Seemingly Insurmountable Goals, The Mountain Before Me

Lai Tzu once said, "The journey of of 1000 miles begins with one step." Creighton Abrams famously stated that in order to eat an elephant, you must take one bite at a time. Why is that first step so hard? I've been procrastinating over an hour trying to even figure out how to start this very post.

Everyone seems to make New Year's resolutions that are tossed aside almost as quickly as they are formed. "This year I am going to eat better, exercise more, save more money…" they all say. By February 1, we are back to our old habits: eating ice cream in front of re-runs, paying for gym memberships we will never use.

When I got pregnant with Lollipop, I vowed to do better, to try harder. But somewhere in the middle of managing a very active one year old while feeling constantly exhausted during my pregnancy, I mostly gave up. I did some things better, but for the most part, I failed.

I FAILED. Full Stop.

I let my daughter, Lollipop, down. I let my husband down. I let my doula down. I let myself down. I gave up.

Now here from the ashes, we are brought to believe we can rise, be reborn. Be a phoenix. I'm no phoenix. I have the willpower and patience of most my generation, which is nil. At best I'm a one eyed, single eared, three-legged dog named "Lucky". Good things that happen to me, well they happen to me by good luck. Bad things that happen, well those things happen because I am lazy, slovenly. I want miraculous changes without miraculous effort.

For seven months I have had a list of things to achieve to attempt optimal conditions for my VBA2C. And what have I done…pissed away seven months.

Oh, now don't be gentle with me and make excuses:
"Oh you were recovering from surgery, you needed 2 months at least to get over that!"
"You have two children under two years old, you're doing great if you shower everyday."
"Once the kids are a little older and more independent you'll get on track fast."

Nope.Nope.Nope.

I'm so paralyzed by fear that I can't even write what my goals are. I'm sitting here quibbling over word usage and grammar. Sigh

Deep breath.

If you write a goal, it's out there for the world to see. If you write a goal, there's accountability. Just another thing to disappoint myself with if when I give up.

Deep breath.

After my VBAC failed, my doula came to visit me. She spelled out some things I should try if I were to attempt another VBAC. They are as follows:

1. Join my local ICAN support group and attend the meetings.
• To date I have liked their Facebook page and attended ZERO meetings.
2. Read the following books: "Cut, Stapled, and Mended" by Roanna Rosewood and "Labyrinth of Birth" by Pam England.
• To date I have successfully NOT lost the scrap of paper these titles have been written on.
3. Contact a local midwife that specializes in assessing pelvimetry to see if what my OBGYN said to me after my births is true: (that I likely had a small pelvis inlet, which is why my babies didn't "could not" descend into the birth canal.)
• To date I have followed the woman's Facebook page and checked out her website. Before I see this lady, I must obtain my surgical reports from my doctor. So this is a double demand.
4. Attend a Red Tent event hosted by our local midwives and doulas. A red tent is "a space where women gather to rest, renew, and often share deep and powerful stories about their lives." The Red Tent movement is changing the way that women interact and support each other by providing a place that honors and celebrates women, and by enabling open conversations about the things that women don’t want to talk about in other venues
• To date I RSVP'd for 2. Bailed out on the first one, the second one is happening soon.
5. Contact our local "Curandera". If this sounds like hippy dippy bullshit to you, allow me elaborate. Our curandera specializes in scar mobilization, Maya Abdominal Therapy, and postpartum support in the way of standard massage techniques, herbalism, spiritual support, and down right badassery. The goal being to help my scar to heal flatter, and promote internal relaxation of the pelvic organs by reducing surgical adhesions. 
• Arguably my most tackled step. To date I have listened to her give two talks. Liked her business page on Facebook, "friended" her on Facebook, spoken with her via private message and email briefly, purchased a massage certificate to redeem, asked her to meet for coffee. (unfortunately she was too busy :-/ ) AAAnnnnnddd, I told her about this blog when she checked up on me. She knows my PPD (postpartum depression has be by the throat.)
6. Find a new birth provider that supports me in having a VBA2C.
• This requires me to find a new doctor and a new hospital. To my knowledge, the only hospital that openly supports VBA2C in our city is the dreaded county hospital, Ben Taub. (more on this eventually, I'm sure.)

That's a tall order for an anxious, lazy ass like myself. These items are on top of my personal goals:

1. Loss weight to the tune of 20 pounds. *groan*
2. Exercise twice weekly. *Louder groan*
3. Talk to current OBGYN to assess my pelvic floor damage *Loud, painful groan with a bowl full of embarrassment*
4. Learn to relax, stop being hyper-vigilant ALL THE TIME. 
• This is arguably the toughest goal. I am high strung by nature, and probably should be getting some kind of treatment for my anxiety. I had my first panic attack in 3rd grade. How do you change something so ingrained in your personality? I used to take medication, but I didn't like the way it made me feel. I have a master's degree in clinical psychology, so I have the knowledge necessary to continue to skill build in this area. I work regularly to check in with myself to see how I am holding my body. I catch myself locked up at the shoulders and jaw almost every time I check. I am even tense while sitting on the toilet. I'm so locked up tight. My poor husband; my lady parts are essentially closed for business. It's just too painful.
5. Correct my separated Diastatsis recti. Which look something like this:

"Yea, a picture!"

I'm currently at a 2" separation (This is not me by the way)

I have been assessed, and have located a trainer. I have not joined the program.

As you can see, I have quite a list in front of me. Some of these steps are hindered by fear of failing. Will I invest all this time and energy only to end up on the operating table a third time?  Other hindrances come in the form of logistics (how on earth am I going have a pelvic exam with 2 little ones), and financial barriers (skills cost money, and they ain't cheap.) Is their such a thing as vagina scholarships?

In the coming weeks, I hope to explain to you why these goals are important for a VBAC journey. This post has already gotten out of hand in length. So I better call it quits for tonight.