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We have this perception, in the U.S., that motherhood and birth and everything associated with it is beautiful. And it’s such a funny perception, because lying just underneath the surface is the knowledge and the certainty that motherhood is frightening and perilous from the moment of conception until…There is no end. There’s no expiration date on a child; even when they’re adults, you’ll still worry (or so I’m told).

An ambivalence exists, then. And it’s especially strong around the birthing process itself. It is absolute fact that the U.S. has a staggering number of maternal deaths; we are only just beginning to face this problem. What we haven’t yet begun to face, really, is the even larger number of women who almost die.

Allow me to tell you about Little Jedi’s birth.

In 2008, I was a 24 year old  graduate student. I’d just returned from a summer-long study abroad program, and I dove right into an intensive Spanish-language translation course, tutor training in our university writing center, and an on-again-off-again relationship with my college boyfriend.

A few weeks later, I just knew I was pregnant. Blood tests confirmed what I suspected, and I began the long road of Deciding What to Do. Abortion was something I considered, of course–I was a poor graduate student whose life was being subsidized by her parents; I was in the middle of writing a lengthy master’s thesis; and with I had a not-entirely-solid relationship. But ultimately, abortion was not a decision I could make. I also knew that adoption would not be an option–my parents or my boyfriend’s parents would likely have adopted the child, and I’m not sure I could have psychologically dealt with that scenario. So my family loomed large in my decision. I knew that my parents would be angry and disappointed (I was right), but that they would come around to accepting things as they were (I was partly right, but that’s a tale for another post) if I decided to have the child.

And so, I decided to have the child. Lucky for me, the insurance provided through my graduate assistantship position went into effect 2 weeks before (!!!) that blood test, and the insurance did cover pregnancy and childbirth, so I was not faced with the tough decision of being uninsured and pregnant. My GYN was also an OB, so I did not even face the onerous task of finding a new doctor. We began prenatal vitamins and regular check-ups immediately; I dutifully didn’t eat cold cuts or drink anymore; I quit smoking; I tried to keep to a regular sleep schedule. I was given a due date close to the end of May, and everything proceeded fairly normally.

And then it didn’t. Cut to March 7, 2009: I was 28 weeks pregnant. I’d been experiencing swelling for quite some time, though I was assured that this was fairly normal and might not indicate a problem. But an ultrasound at that check-up showed us that he was measuring much smaller than was normal for his gestational age, indicating a problem. I don’t remember much of what was explained to me at the time–just that I needed to have  consult with a doctor who could perform a higher-level ultrasound that could predict problems. We made an appointment, which had to be 20 days later (almost 3 weeks, which is a long time in making-a-baby-land) because there was only 1 clinic anywhere nearby that did this level of testing. And then we waited.

On the 26th, we drove to 90 miles to the clinic that performed this test and saw a doctor and sonographer who spent about an hour looking at the kiddo. That doctor told us that aside from being small, our baby was looking fine. This suggested a problem with me–for some reason, I was getting enough nutrients to the kiddo, so he’d need to be delivered a bit earlier than normal, maybe at 37 weeks. For the time being, I needed to count kicks during the day, have more frequent ultrasounds, and go to appointments twice a week.

All of this–and yet, on April 2, I rushed myself to the hospital and to admissions. I’d just had an appointment with my OB, and my blood pressure was alarmingly high–there was also an alarming amount of protein in my urine. I called Little Jedi’s father, who was a few hours away finishing the last class for his degree; I called my parents, who were an hour away at their home; and then I sat in an observation room with a blood pressure cuff taking my pressure every 15 minutes, nurses making concerned noises when they saw the readouts, my head buzzing buzzing buzzing with the word “preeclamspia.” (There is no cure but delivery)

I’d read about it, this word. I knew it could kill him; I knew it could kill me. I knew that even though I felt fine, just fine, was tutoring students just the day before, that blood pressure in the 200 range was Not Good, Not Good at All. I would be fine, though, I reasoned. High blood pressure was dangerous but manageable. (There is no cure but delivery)

Naturally, the doctors decided very quickly that they would need to admit me. I needed observation and, perhaps, intervention. (There is no cure but delivery) I think this is the point that I became afraid for the first time, really afraid and not just numb. Because at this point there was family there, and there were doctors coming to talk about potential scenarios if my baby was delivered that weekend, and I had no crib yet no diapers no bags not even a decent bathrobe and it was soon, so soon, too soon. It was 32 weeks. They shot steroids into my system to help develop my baby’s lungs; they talked to me about trying to keep him in as long as possible, hoping that they could keep my pressure down and keep me in the hospital bed for a few weeks (!!! oh god, I thought; confinement) while he had more time (but yes, he needed more time, so bed is the best scenario here there is no cure but delivery there is no cure but delivery).

But they couldn’t. My pressure kept rising, kept rising would not come down. The night of April 3, the doctors made the decision to perform the C-section the next day, giving the steroid shots the full 48 hours to work but delivering the kiddo quickly. They pumped magnesium sulfate into my body, inserted a catheter and put compression socks on my legs to prevent blood clots. I was in the bed to stay there, and delivery was happening. There is no cure there is no cure there is no cure but delivery. The doctors offered to induce labor, but they explained that labor often makes blood pressure rise, which would lead to a C-section anyway–so we opted for the safer route. The magnesium sulfate had awful effects: I was delirious, vomiting, miserable. At one point just before my C-section on the evening of April 4, I remember my room being full of people as I vomited into a bag held by the nurse. I was afraid and agitated, wanted to make everyone leave but without the strength or the know-how to make that happen.

I was wheeled into the surgery room and given a spinal block. The most terrifying moments were those when that sheet was up, a veil between my body and my baby and myself, I couldn’t move more than my head and I panicked and there was pressure and then and then and then.

A small cry. The smallest cry I ever heard, the loudest cry I ever heard. A moment to see his small face, to kiss his tiny tiny perfect wrinkled face his not-quite-three-pound body before he was whisked away.

After is a blur of people, a blur of emotions. Still delirious, magnesium drunk for another 24 hours as doctors said things like NICU and PICC line and sucking reflexes and genetic tests and warmer and incubator and something called “liquid gold” breastmilk. And all I could think was that I still needed a crib still needed this thing that thing a baby to hold.

I didn’t see him again until April 6, because I couldn’t get out of my bed until then, and he could not be out of his incubator. He was so frail so tiny so perfect so terrifying. I cried; I didn’t want to hold him yet. I thought I would break him. I thought, really, that I’d already broken him. I wasn’t sure about him in the beginning, you see, and so I thought maybe I’d made him sick, made myself sick.

Recovery, for both of us is still a blur in my head. I left the hospital on April 7 without him. I cried and I pumped breastmilk every 3 hours and I bled and I ached and I laughed and I loved and I tried not to smoke and I have no idea what I was doing, what I did for weeks, for 5 weeks, while he was in the hospital.

And yet. And yet and yet and yet.

We were lucky. We were privileged. We were in an enviable position from a socioeconomic standpoint if not from a physical standpoint. I did have good prenatal, perinatal, and postnatal care. We’re alive because of that care. Neither of us has long-lasting effects (that’s only partially true–I have a band of scar tissue along my abdominal wall with no feeling but a lot of residual emotional feeling). We had insurance to help cover the hundreds of thousands of dollars of medical care required to get us healthy. We had all of that and still–I almost died.

It’s far, far past time that we address the prenatal and postnatal care as well as perinatal care. We have to address all three. Because too many women die, too many women almost die, too many children die almost die have died are dead. It’s inexcusable horrifying terrifying.

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Every time I’ve ever vacationed at Disney World, I’ve cried. (Yes, I’ve been there enough times that I need to say “every” time. My family wasn’t terribly inventive with its vacation destinations, but we took one every summer.) As a child, I cried from sheer exhaustion or from wanting a toy I couldn’t have or from frustration. As an adult, I cried as I saw the light in Little Jedi’s eyes as he sat atop my husband’s shoulders, mouth agape at Cinderella’s castle lit up at night, fireworks behind it.

I realize that in telling you all of this, I am indicating a certain sort of privilege. For a very long time, I didn’t understand this in the least. As an adult, I’ve only just begun to understand it.

Once upon a time, we took huge, huge family vacations. When I say huge, I mean that there would be a caravan of several cars, my aunts and uncles and cousins and grandmother and brothers and parents and all of our luggage stuffed into vans and cars, stopping for picnics and bathroom breaks at rest-stops on the way the Florida or maybe, on occasion, the Smoky Mountains or Gatlinburg, Tennessee.

Vacations were important. I think that for my dad, a man who started working around 11, bagging groceries and taking home his pay to to help support his family, taking a vacation each summer was a sign that we’d made it. Middle class families took vacations together, spent quality time together. For me, these vacations were sometimes, but not always fun. They were rife with underlying tension, unacknowledged but lying somewhere in wait. Every vacation was like that, even our most recent trip to Disney World in 2014, Little Jedi’s first pilgrimage.

My family is a complex web in regards to class; if I were able to fully untangle this web, it is likely that we’d see a microcosm of the macro-level class struggles in the United States. It’s hard, so hard to untangle this web though, hard to break through the silence that has built over years, the layers of scar tissue that have formed over old wounds. (On every occasion that this silence has been broken, ugliness and meanness have boiled up, family members accusing other family members of snobbery, or of laziness, of ignorance, or of selfishness, or of ungratefulness.) The wall of silence around money and finances was made louder because of its irony–my father was a banker, a career chosen in part because it was a desk job that allowed weekends off. It was also a job he did well, working his way up to branch president before his retirement.

Naturally, this left me incredibly confused as young adult who was out on my own. My wings weren’t clipped, but I couldn’t fly. I didn’t know where I fit, not on any level: because if the silence around money wasn’t confusing and constraining enough, there were the absolute decrees that I go to college, that I choose a white-collar career, that I be a good Christian and find a good husband and live a morally upright life: in short, that I maintain my parents’ hard-won, middle-class standing from the points of both economic and social standards. (Imagine, then,  my poor parents’ disappointment when I turned out nothing like they’d planned, getting a late start in my career and being pretty much the exact opposite of a genteel Southern lady.)

And so here I am, years from the last vacation I took–that 2014 trip to Disney World, funded by my parents, who wanted to take Little Jedi to Disney for his first time. I’m now planning a family vacation of my own, the very first vacation that Little Jedi and Sam and I will go on together of our own accord. We’re heading to Universal Studios in December. It may not be the best time for us to do this from a financial perspective, but it’s the best time for us to do this in other, perhaps more important, ways. We’ve spent the last several years trying to get onto our feet, and it hasn’t been easy. We’ve weathered job changes, moving a few times, and the loss of a few significant and beloved people over the last few years. Little Jedi is 9 now, and he’s only growing older, as are we.

And yet I still realize, that because I can say this, I am in an enviable position. Because we can’t all travel, even to an amusement park that is within driving distance. One of the things I hate the most is this ever more ubiquitous idea that anyone can travel if they just want it enough. Because that’s just not true. For legitimate career and financial reasons, we could not travel until now.

But I’m so excited y’all. I’m going to get to take my nerdy child to a nerdy place, and my nerdy husband is going with us. We’re going to have 3 glorious days to spend together with no work to do, and what’s more is that we get to have this experience with friends who have become, through time, family. I know it’s still 4 months away, but I’m already planning.

And maybe, just maybe, Universal won’t make me cry. 😂😂😂😂

I abandoned my writing for a time, but here I am again.

It’s difficult to find where to begin, though.

I promised myself that I would write today, and so here I am: sitting at the computer, ready to tear open a vein and bleed (someone said that—who was it?). But I have no idea where to start.

Of course, they say that the simplest place to begin is the beginning. But who are “they” anyway, to determine the beginning of something? For (as the wise Semisonic once told us) every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end. So what is the beginning? Is it the day I was born, small and squalling and dark haired? Or was it earlier, the day my parents met? Or still earlier, in the days when my parents were children—my mother a child with 4 younger sisters living in rural Alabama and my father a child living in small-town Mississippi with his 4 siblings? Or is it later, far later, when my own child is born? Does it even begin with birth? How could it begin with birth, how could it begin with a person who so obviously came from someone else?

And so it’s utterly bemusing, this business of finding the beginning. Perhaps some of that is due to the complicated web that is the small town in Mississippi where I grew up. The secrets and silences that build, that I already feel weighing on me, denying my ability to write some of the words the way that they could be written, the way they probably should be written. I’m currently watching Sharp Objects on Sundays with my husband; sometimes I white-knuckle my way through moments when Adora (absolutely brilliantly portrayed by Patricia Clarkson) and Camille interact, when Adora infantilizes and trivializes. It’s my family, my town, writ large. Nevermind that I obviously, too identify with Camille (also brilliantly acted by Amy Adams), the stifling presence of a life where everyone knows everything. Of course I don’t have quite the level of trauma present–I escaped many of the dangers of a small town by making myself small, allowing the suffocating rules of my parents to control me rather than rebelling (oh, the rebelling would come, but only later; for now there was fear, fear of teenage pregnancy of addiction of death of hell of rape of assault of every single thing that could be feared as a Christian girlchild with a fundamentalist family).

So I don’t know where it began or when it began or even how it began. I don’t know how I begin.

And yet I do.