We had our daughter on May 17th, 2021.
The one we had been waiting for, the one we had fought so hard for. She was born on a beautiful Monday morning. But how she came was anything but beautiful.
After a long pregnancy that consisted of months upon months of bedrest, trips to the emergency room for bleeding, a partial. abruption, and fighting off thoughts that we would lose this pregnancy to miscarriage as well - we had finally made it to the end game. The final weeks of my third trimester which meant talking birth plan and welcoming home our much anticipated little girl.
We chose induction. Don’t flog me if that is something you believe should be held as a last resort. It runs deep in my family and both of my boys had been induced so it was familiar and offered the first feeling of safety I had held within my grasp.
We brought snacks and nail polish to the hospital that Sunday night. We casually strolled in to the birthing floor having some understanding of what was going to come next. After all, I had done this before. This was the one thing that I was “good at” in terms of pregnancy… labor. I could push this baby out.
And then we waited.
I progressed and secretly hoped that she would come on the 16th because mathematically it would be so fun to have a 5/16/21 birthday. But she didn’t come that night. In fact, after my water was broken I barely progressed at all. At one point I was an 8 but then when checked again I was back to a 6. Not exactly the direction you want to be going.
Rich woke up to a few nurses in the room talking to me, casually as a nurse would during labor, and decided to head to the truck for his allergy medicine. He left. It wasn’t a big deal in the moment, I was obviously pretty far from having the baby. And when he had cleared the room, slowly more and more faces began to appear. My doctor had made it to my bedside and after venturing through a tumultuous pregnancy with this woman, I felt victorious that we had found ourselves together in the labor room.
But her face wasn’t victorious.
Her face was glued to the monitor, as was everyone else’s in my room. I was told to flip from one side to the other. Stay on my back then jump to all fours.
I looked like a fish flopping on the shore but I never questioned or asked why. I knew. Their faces were all telling me that something was wrong.
And then when my own phone was placed to my ear after my husband had been dialed for me, being told “tell your husband to come back now”, my suspicions were confirmed. I was still on my hands and knees as he resurfaced with a whole crowd surrounding me and as I looked at my doctor I knew my once “I can do this” attitude was not enough. She needed to come out now.
We had an emergency c-section that day. It was a blur and somewhat comical looking back as I was wheeled still on all fours to the operating room.
I kept telling myself that this was the last hard thing. I thought it was over but this really would be the end of it and then we would be safe. My face had said as much as they laid her on my chest for the first time.
We had made it.
I didn’t come here to share a hard story but then an overall happy ending.
I want to tell you about the weeks and months that would come after.
My brother’s death anniversary that would happen the next week and the news that my cousin was killed the same day all while my husband was officiating another funeral. How I could barely move and my body has never been in more pain than in those first two weeks of recovery… back in bed. And how every time Rich would leave the house for weeks on end it would send me into a full blown panic.
Uncontrollable tears and fear gripped my heart as if I was thrust back into my teenage years battling the biggest darkness I had yet to face.
They call it panic disorder, but it feels bigger than that. It feels like panic paralysis, panic death sentence, panic chaos.
This, this is what I wanted to share. But it could only be understood after knowing how I got here.
And while I did take medication at fourteen to help cope with the onslaught of anxiety attacks and overwhelming fearful thoughts, I had a few more tools this time around. It wasn’t flowery and it was nowhere near rainbows but everyday I fought for my thoughts. Here are just a few of the things that I did (and am still doing)…
I identified my trigger. For me it is perceived health complications. A low grade fever. A swollen lymph node that feels like a mass on the back of my daughter’s head. Sirens after Rich has just left. Anything that might mark a warning that something is wrong.
I recognized that my thoughts were about to be untrustworthy. I would love to say that just knowing there might be a health issue and understanding my hesitancy and anxiety around that would be enough, but I can assure you with every panicked bone in my body that it wasn’t. My thoughts wouldn’t just jump to doctor appointments and waiting for answers. My thoughts were filled with death and how I couldn’t live without my daughter or her without me. Completely unconfirmed, irrational thoughts that were nowhere near based on anything true or realistic. Despite feeling both true and real. So I committed to not trusting myself while my thoughts did acrobats. I ignored them to the best of my ability.
I read my Bible and quoted memorized scriptures. The great part about having anxiety as a believer is not that it magically goes away, but that God is with you while you wrestle. So I reminded myself of things that were true (thanks Philippians 4:8) and about my need to renew my thoughts. Then I talked to myself a bit about the beauty of Jesus’ sacrifice and what it meant for me personally (read: Isaiah 53) even if complete healing wasn't in the here and now. Not just with what I thought was wrong, but also with my mental health.
I told someone. Not just anyone either. I told my husband who was in close proximity to me, and a few friends who could check in on me. All of them committed to praying with me and over me. They were my lighthouses on the shoreline reminding me where I could come in for safety.
I asked for help. This might sound a lot like #4 but we need to recognize when God is also leading us to get counseling for trauma or mood stablers for chemical imbalances. In my situation what I needed was some great counsel (which I found in a close mentor of mine who knows me and has known me so she could speak to me as a whole person) and someone with medical knowledge so that I could stand on some truth when my thoughts wanted to scream “death!” I have on two separate occasions asked for pediatricians to visit my home. I thank God for them (who are family and friends) who jumped in to help when I couldn’t be seen within a two week timeline for an appointment.
In all of this, I have come so far. The darkness isn’t quite as dark and the waves are not as high - though the storms still rage. I came to share that you are not alone. That God loves you and has a plan for you to fight this battle. And that it is okay to feel tired of fighting all of the time.
But keep fighting.
Don’t give up or give in.
I know there is a world on the other side of this that doesn’t feel so exhausting and hard-pressed. I have been there before and I am on my way back there now. God set me free in an instant after a long two year battle almost twenty years ago, but this time He saw it fit to have me walk a little closer to Him on a longer journey home. Maybe it is for you to hear that you are not alone. Or maybe it is to reassure me that even in my darkest He loves me all the same (Romans 5:8), has a plan for me all the same (James 1:2-12), and gives me the strength to keep going (2 Corinthians 13:9).