In early 2020, I signed up for a Memoir Writing Workshop with Irene Graham. I came to the class with plans to write the story of growing up in Southern California in the decades following the quest for women’s equality. After an outside the box brainstorming assignment, the story of my daughter’s homecoming came bubbling onto the paper. The pandemic interrupted my scheduled pace to finish my two son’s stories.
The project came back to life as I explored “Sex, Politics, and Reproduction” in a course offered by the Women and Gender Studies department at Northern Arizona University. Again, I planned to write on a different topic, but I was pulled back to my experiences with infertility and miscarriage and the stigma and shame I felt on my journey to motherhood. The culminating project shares the power of storytelling to heal and give hope for those who have experienced miscarriage, recurrent pregnancy loss, infertility, and other reproductive injustices.
“Nobody has ever measured, not even poets, how much the heart can hold.”
-Zelda Fitzgerald.
The October afternoon is crisp and my energy crackles with anticipation and excitement like dry leaves trampled under running feet. I am on my way to meet my child. The changing colors serve as a symbol of my personal transition. We pull into the parking lot and I observe the cinderblock simplicity of the concrete and glass building and yet, that cold exterior holds my warm beating heart. I am already in there… with her. I look at Tom and there are no words. We spent years hoping and wishing for our arms to be heavy with children, our ears to hear the twinkle of laughter, and to smell the sweetness of babyhood. I exit the car, pregnant with passion for motherhood. I am not in a hurry. I savor my wild eagerness to get to that door and have it all begin. We arrive and cross the threshold to parenthood.
I would not wish infertility on any other woman (or man). We met and we meshed and we married. We moved to a new city, started new careers, and got pregnant. A similar story to our friends and family, but our baby was a blighted ovum. We were pregnant again by the next change of season. We saw a heartbeat. And then, later, I miscarried. I couldn’t get pregnant. I would not wish a fertility investigation on any other woman (or man) – yet I would not trade my journey to parenthood.
My health education began with my desire to be a mother. A year of gynecological tests and cycles of synthetic hormones taught me I had to take control of my own body. My intuition reawakened and I vowed to never put my destiny in the hands of others again. So I did what I do best. I went to the books. I hunted for my answers at my safe haven – the library. I began to collect personal health tools: yoga, natural medicine, aromatherapy, gluten-free and clean eating, and community. In my pursuit of answers, I found a quality homeopathic doctor and an internet forum of conversation threading.
Twenty five years ago, I managed to find, on the internet, a bulletin board of women who were experiencing infertility, miscarriage, heartbreak, and hope. I found connection within the warmth and safety of my home office. It was not the first circle of women in my life and it won’t be the last.
I would not wish multiple miscarriages on any woman (or man). I dropped wheat, milk, corn, sugar, and alcohol and added Chinese Herbs to my diet. Months later, I was detoxed. I got pregnant and I miscarried. Then I got angry. I found a therapist and Neurofeedback training and I got pregnant. It was an ectopic tubal pregnancy, and another surgical miscarriage. Months later, I arrived at an infertility specialist consultation and discovered I was pregnant. The heartbeat was there… and then weeks later it was not. I found an acupuncturist, and I naturally miscarried. We did three IUIs and then one IVF and nothing happened in the petri dish. And then I got pregnant naturally, with twins. I miscarried. We then found New Hope Adoption Agency.
I would not wish the adoption sign up process on any woman (or man). As we waited for the mandatory training, I discovered I was pregnant. I did not want to cancel our chance at parenthood, so I held this secret inside of me. As we sat through a weekend of education on the topics of: open and closed adoptions, the state laws and requirements, and the statistics and realities of choosing to adopt a child, I felt conflicted. I was hiding my pregnancy and didn’t feel that I completely fit the profile of the barren couple, but it was a good choice. I miscarried the week after training.
I would not wish the governmental and agency investigation on any women (or man). While waiting for fingerprinting, home studies, and background checks, I threw myself into creating the “Tom and Mary Color Brochure”. My career experiences in marketing, publishing, and education guided the creative process. I produced the first impression handout that birthmothers would view, if they want to personally choose adoptive parents for their birth child. I felt the hope of forward momentum, yet it was mixed with frustration. At times, I found myself choking on the bile of bitterness; I had to jump through hoops to be deemed worthy to parent. I interacted with women, in and out of my circles, who would never understand any of this process because many couples became pregnant easily and never had a complication.
I would not wish my turmoil, my tornado of feelings, on any woman (or man), but I would not trade them for anything in the world.
I came to accept that everyone had their pregnancy (and adoption) challenges regardless of their circumstances. There were so many lessons I would gather up along the infertility journey. Like pebbles and shells on a walk down the beach, they were treasures to be pocketed and brought out later, for better examination, throughout the years to come. I became a gem cutter.
I will cut facets and hone my jewels into bits of wisdom. I will revisit many of these moments as I travel forward into the decades ahead as a wife, parent, sister, daughter, friend, mentor, and more.
From a January phone call I placed to an adoption lawyer, until a crisp day in October, nine months passed in 1998. My intuition told me during that summer, to start getting ready. I planned a fish theme and made a baby quilt and sponge painted the nursery walls, but I could not bring myself to buy a single baby item. I was optimistic and practical, but I was reserved. Patience was never a virtue of mine, so I would not call this hesitation a moment of discipline, but rather an anticipatory hold back. I grasped tightly to the rollercoaster bar as it made its first climb up the steep incline. I knew the minute it crested the top, for that momentary pause, I would gleefully throw my arms in the air and scream with joy the entire ride.
On Friday, October 9, 1998, I dropped Tom at the airport for a football weekend in Arizona. I had the day off from my PhD studies and met my best friend for lunch. She was to arrive with the gender results of her ultrasound and I was equally excited since she had asked me to be in the delivery room of the birth. After we celebrated her daughter-to-be, we giggled in a hair salon and later picked up items for a friend’s upcoming wedding shower. I saw a stuffed kangaroo and remarked that “when we bring home a baby”, I would come back for that Mama, and her baby joey. I had transitioned to readiness, and did not know that I was suspended at the top of the coaster climb. I parted ways with my friend, and in less than an hour, I would have the wind in my face on an exciting amusement park ride. All weekend long, I prepared for parenthood.
We were told in training that we would receive a call asking if we were “together” to receive news that we had been “chosen”. In the state of Nevada, there is a 72 hour window from when the birthmother declares she wants to give the baby up for adoption and when the state allows her to sign off and terminate the parental rights. During this time the baby stays in a state trained and approved receiving care home. When I hung up the phone, I bubbled with the news that we were to pick up our daughter on Monday afternoon. My husband, my sister, my mother, and the friend I just left, are not available to answer the phone. This is not the kind of news I can leave on an answering machine so I grabbed my keys and headed out to shop. I arrived at the doors of the Baby Superstore and it felt like I was on a game show episode, where the contestant is timed to see how much can fit in the cart before the buzzer ends. I zoomed to the left, and I encountered “Nipple Wall”. It was an enormous arrangement of pacifiers and bottles in all shapes and sizes. Overwhelmed by the choices, I bypassed that for a later time, and went in hunt of a car seat to bring her home. It takes only a matter of seconds for me to choose the gender neutral denim (because, of course, this is the first of many babies to come and there might be boys). I encountered a salesgirl and she is the first to get the news. Word gets out and the whole store buzzed with excitement for me. The cart is filled quickly with diapers, wipes, various formulas, bathing necessities, swaddling blankets, gowns, beanies, and booties. I paused in the middle of the store, for only a moment, to savor the glow that warmed me from head to toe: I am a Mom.
Tom and I connected and concluded that I would continue to nest and he would be home on Sunday afternoon to put together the crib. The word got out and my circles from near and far were in celebration mode. After a full day of shopping and gathering at the specialty boutique, I threw that wedding shower, and got word that a baby shower brunch is planned for me the next morning. It hit me like a giant steamroller that through seven years, we have gathered an enormous support network of friends and family that were equally eager for us to have this moment in our life. The joy was abundant.
That Sunday night, we put various names in a brown sack lunch bag. We both drew out: Abigail. I do not think it was luck or coincidence. I believe the Universe already had her named. Tom has a sister named Gail. I have a brother named Joe. Abigail Jo was born on September 24, 1998. She weighed 6 pounds and 6 ounces. We were only given a small amount of information about the birth parents and their background. Her name was Gail; his name was Joe. She was a single parent with twin boys under the age of two. She had an emergency C-section and named her Joey. Our baby would have names linked to the birth parents and her new family, but she will become her own unique Abbie.
I awakened with a start early on that pick up morning and remember the stuffed Mama Kangaroo with the baby joey in her pouch. It was never for our nursery, it was to be a gift for the birth mother. I was flooded with a rush of feelings – of awe and wonder at the love of a mother for her child. I had only experienced this minuscule moment of motherhood and my love is already so deep for a child I had yet to see. I suddenly experienced an abundance of compassion for the courageous choice she made to give her daughter more than she could offer at that time in her life. It would be many more years before I could embrace the anguish of her decision, but I had clarity of mind to write her a letter and leave the door wide open for her to be part of Abbie’s life when she was ready.
I will not wish seven years of infertility on any woman (or man), but I will wish everyone the power of knowing that children can never have too many people loving them.
“If you love someone, you must be prepared to set them free.”
-Paul Coelho.
On a winter Tuesday morning, in January 2001, I was at the office desk preparing my notebooks for the new semester and my return to graduate studies. When the phone rang, I was able to grab it on the first ring to avoid waking up a napping toddler. It was the adoption agency, and there were two life-changing statements: a birthmother of a baby boy has chosen your family and Abbie’s paternal birth family wants to open the door for a relationship. The school binders will remain closed for a later time in my life.
Just as every live birth has a different story, so does every adoption story. The Birthmother wanted to meet us. When we arrived at the same agency parking lot a couple years later, it had a different kind of anticipation. Will she like us? Will she be ok with her decision? I walked through the door with a huge and open heart, and I met a woman who was experiencing robust emotions and a young teenager holding her baby brother. When they put that baby boy in my arms, I locked eyes with him, and he imprinted on my heart. The birthmother struggled and began to cry and went for a walk with the caseworker, the daughter stayed with us and we got to share a few minutes. Alex took up residence in my heart too.
The next two days flurried and flew and settled, like snowflakes in a storm, as we prepared and celebrated and planned for another homecoming. An hour before pickup, as I was folding the freshly laundered baby boy clothing, the phone rang. My stomach dropped and my heart lurched. I knew before I answered it. This was not going to be easy.
The birthmother had called to say she was going to be late. The agency would ring us back with an update. I knew then that there was heartbreak ahead. I was thrown back into the same uncertainty of infertility. Will the lab results show the pregnancy is progressing? Or, will the phone call reveal that we were back on Miscarriage Main Street? The minutes felt like hours.
I sludged through the early afternoon forcing myself to maintain a glimmer of optimistic hope that she simply had a flat tire or a dead battery for her ride to sign her legal termination papers. That was not the case. She never showed up that Friday afternoon. When the agency called at the end of the business day, my bruised soul bubbled with a slow burning stew of uncertainty and confusion. I had been to this place before, but I had not prepared myself. I thought the days of my body betraying me were over. I had not planned for this treachery. This loss of a child hurt more. I had held his warm body and felt his weight in my arms.
When our case worker called on Saturday with a report it went like this: She showed up with a friend who did all the talking and declared: “She has decided to parent and Alex and I will help her.” What She failed to share with her helper and 13-year-old daughter is that the baby was a ward of the state. She and the baby tested positive for a variety of drugs at the birth, so She would have to go to court to petition to regain her parental rights. The baby would leave the receiving care family and go to Child Haven, a county facility, until further notice. Our case worker did not believe that this story was over and delivered me an IV drip of hope, to be trickled into me, until the court hearing. She inquired: “Are you done with this birthmother, or if this goes a different way, are you and Tom still open to this adoption?” There was not a second of hesitation; “he will always be a part of our family”. My response begins my healing journey.
Over that weekend, I reflected on maternal love and I gained deeper gratitude for my gift of motherhood. Although this moment mimicked my previous miscarriages, this time I had a 2-year-old daughter to fill my arms and our busy life passed the time much differently than our other losses. I was confident there would be another child in our life.
After packing up the infant layette, I chose a stuffed animal from Abbie’s menagerie and drafted a letter to the birthmother to create space for the future. My message was simple and vulnerable. I fully supported her decision and reinforced that the best place for her children will always be with her. I thanked her for the opportunity to be part of her life. I closed with a pure and open-hearted message that her son would always have us loving him from afar. As I dropped it off at the agency door, I released any remaining negativity and looked forward.
My circle of support was there for me. I caught them up at our bi-monthly gathering and shared the vast amount of growth and clarity I had gained in a few days. I felt transformed and illuminated with a peaceful glow. When I turned my cell phone back on there was a message. We were told to come pick up our son the next day.
She went to court and the judge was not forgiving. It would have been a minimum of nine months before she could petition to bring him home, until then he would remain a ward of the state. Alex would now be observed by the authorities and be subject to the same requirements to maintain custody. She asked the adoption agency if Tom and Mary would be willing to parent and when she went to sign the papers she was given my letter. Our case worker reported that after she read it she burst into tears, of relief, and shared that my simple note gave her peace in her decision to choose us. It is my belief that my feelings were only temporary discomfort compared to the excruciating pain of her journey. She knew that going to court for him would put her daughter’s future in jeopardy. In reflection, It is easy for me to see now, that a short window of time for me, provided her a path filled with fewer regrets.
Luke Canyon was born on January 2, 2001 and weighed 7 pounds and 9 ounces. The three of us brought him home on January 26th and we became a family of four. Luke, in Latin, translates to “bringer of light – luminous”. His coming home story ignited a part of my heart and it shines brighter. His birthmother gave him the name Canyon. Finding our home was a collaborative effort of unselfish love and trust by all. By letting go and having faith, I learned to keep a spotlight on the here and now. Be Present. Value the chrysalis. Like an iridescent butterfly, the future will unfold and free itself when it is ready
“Known as a fertility god, prankster, healer, and storyteller, Kokopelli has been a source of wonder for centuries.”
-IndigenousPeople.net
Do I tell him on Father’s Day? The question did a quick lap around my heart and head as I stared at a positive pregnancy test. I slipped it into a small box and when he opened it at the kitchen table, with Abbie in a high chair and Luke in a bouncy seat, our eyes met and his eyebrow raised with an inquisitive “Really?”
Since we were leaving for an upcoming camping trip, I got into the doctor to evaluate the pregnancy progress. By my estimate, there should have been a heartbeat, but there was not. I had been to this rodeo before, so it was easy to slip on my big girl boots and sigh away the short lived wonder of a fifth family member. Luke was almost six months old and barely sleeping through the night. This would be my ninth miscarriage.
We had not used contraception for a decade, but without hesitation I asked my doctor for options. I was ready to end my fertility journey to avoid “double-digit” miscarriage statistics in my life story. He had seen me through the most recent losses, but he still encouraged me to hold out hope. He gave me his personal cell phone number in case there were any issues on my trip. Tom and I finalized our decision to have a tubal ligation and I made an appointment for surgery upon our return. A sense of calm serenity washed over me as I realized a chapter was writing it’s last paragraph.
A few nights into the trip, I felt warmth between my legs and knew there was probably bleeding. Like a seasoned war veteran, I put on my combat boots, grabbed rations and a backpack and headed to the campground latrines armed with a book and flashlight. I internally chuckled to myself that I had always dreamed of a birth in nature. Thankfully the campground facilities were clean and… empty. I looked to the sky and thanked the stars for allowing me this private time, during the dark of night, while all were sleeping.
Many chapters in, I am triaging myself. Did the spotting stop? Are there any cramps? Is this a false alarm? Should I call my doctor? I pack it up and head back to the camping trailer. I’m well prepared if required.
We carry on with the trip and head to spend the day at a hot spring pool and spa. Tom treated me to a relaxing massage and as she prepared she held her hands above my belly and commented that she felt a lot of energy and activity in my abdomen. I confessed that I am experiencing a miscarriage. She paused and gave me a compassionate look, and I am thankful that she does not speak her empathy and sorrow. She expresses a wise and calming smile and I quickly relaxed under her spell. I got a vision that upon my return, I will hold my own personal ceremony to celebrate the end of my fertility. I felt empowered.
As I went to check out there is a dish of arrowheads and I decided to choose one to be part of my celebration. I smiled when I saw the symbol I had worn for years on a charm bracelet; it is Kokopelli, the little humpbacked flute player, the symbol of fertility. My confidence continued to gain depth and serenity. The next day was Independence Day and I felt the freedom in knowing that this was my last pregnancy. I felt as if a rainbow surrounded me and a sense of inner glow as I joined Tom, Abbie, and Luke in the naturally warm water. They are my life boat.
On the last day of the trip, I found myself in a field of wildflowers. The sky was bright blue. The clouds floated by with ease. For a quick moment, my calm inner happiness was briefly interrupted by the need to take a deep and full breath to steady myself in the high altitude. As I hiked down the trail path, I snapped this picture in my memory bank to hold as a bookend.
As I headed out to do my pre-op appointment and then go to the hospital to do the blood work and preregistration, I grabbed my list of ceremony items to be picked up on the way home for that evening. This was going to be one hell of a personal ritual with fire, flowers, music, and maybe even some singing and dancing under the moonlight. My fertility was going to go out in a blaze of glory. I shared my “Bye-Bye Pre Tube Tie” plans with my doctor as he rubbed the cold ultrasound gel on the vaginal wand. As I chirped, like a bird greeting the morning, he told me to look at the screen, there was a heartbeat. Plot twist.
In all honesty, I wasn’t all that surprised. There had been signposts that week: the brief book with flashlight adventure, the look on the reiki massage therapist’s face, the wave of nausea in the wildflower field, and a lack of the old familiar feeling of dread. There was a thread of hope in the forefront of my mind and I think I used party planning to fill those few days until another ultrasound. I laughed uproariously as I grabbed my cell phone to call Tom and give him the play by play action on the screen. “You aren’t Fu**ing with me right?”. I assured him this was real and we set off on another road to travel, but this one felt like a huge wide highway with multiple lanes for Abbie, Luke, Tom’s and his business, and Pregnant Mary.
It all felt different which gave me hopeful optimism. Through all the infertility years, I had grown to value and appreciate my “glass is half full” approach to pregnancy and life. It doesn’t cost a penny to wish and it doesn’t hurt any less to dream about a heartbeat that keeps beating and then see an empty space on a monitor. Always Keep Hope in your Heart was my mantra. Rather than worry about what we would see at the next ultrasound, I decided to believe it was progressing perfectly. And it was. The screen was alive with a 12-week baby with arms and legs moving like jumping jacks. In awe, Tom asks the technician how she does it. She replied, “Dad, that is your child, all on it’s own, and don’t let any ultrasound tech you they have the ability to pull that off. She had never seen this before.” I took it as a greeting: “Hi, I’m here!” For the first time ever, we hear the sound of a strong heartbeat over an audio speaker.
Three weeks later, there is bleeding. Rather than panic and throw in the towel, I toss a question to The Universe: “You wouldn’t be this cruel would you?”. It’s the dark of night, and I tiptoe back to bed to wait until dawn to call my doctor. As I lay there breathing in and out to Tom’s sleeping body, I felt it. A flutter. Reassurance. Another message: “I’m OK, no need to worry”. The perinatologist appointment revealed slight placenta previa over my cervix. An explanation to the one time spotting and something to monitor. The high tech ultrasound shows a beautiful clear image and when she asks if we want to know the gender, the legs open wide and I reply, “It’s a boy!”.
“The circles of women around us weave invisible nets of love that can carry us when we’re week, and sing with us when we are strong.”
-sark.
How would I write my birth experience? As I look backward in reflection, I can lump the actions, during my months of pregnancy, into this overarching theme of a desire to take control of my labor and delivery story. I researched natural child birthing and found a doula. I had zero fear of physical pain. I reasoned that there was no way that it could hurt as much as the excruciating emptiness of infertility. My doula guided me toward a birthing course that used a variety of “outside the box” activities to find and release fears and anxieties about Nate’s upcoming birth. Through a guided drawing meditation, with my non-dominant hand, I discovered my biggest fear was the thought of being constrained and tied down during labor. I was taught the framework of a birth plan, and freedom of movement would be the foundation.
Over the years, I had heard many stories from friends and family. Most all the stories had unexpected surprises and very little control for the laboring mother and her partner. Caesarean section surgeries seemed too common-too high of a statistic. As I asked more questions, obstetric violence ran through many of them: doctor timed pitocin inductions, forced VBAC deliveries, episiotomies without consent, babies whisked away, and nurses who shamed mothers during their hospital stays.
I had confidence in all my decisions and wishes before writing the plan that would require approval from my OB and Pediatrician. My marketing background and research skills would be necessary tools for convincing their hesitancy through scientific proof. I had to bargain with my OB that I would agree to a hospital birth – (he deemed me high risk at 38.5 years of age and a history of multiple miscarriages) – if he signed off on: no IV bag on a pole-only a line taped above my wrist; no drugs without my consent; and, no episiotomy without my permission. He agreed to play a role as teammate, not dictator. I knew my pediatrician socially as well as professionally and it took research studies that proved it was healthy for the baby to receive all the cord blood – for it to stop pulsating – before we cut it – to get him to sign off on my plan. After the cord was cut, it would be my decision when he would leave me to be weighed and measured. (I will never know if he was nervous or curious, or as a personal friend, but the pediatrician showed up and became part of the team at delivery.)
Since no one had lived my story, I felt freedom from having to do it like anyone else. I got to finally experience the big belly baby shower from a close family friend, but then I decided to throw my own party and I named it: A Celebration of Motherhood. The guests were asked to bring a potluck dish that was a recipe that reminded them of women in their life. No gifts were allowed, but the invitation included a white quilt square for them to decorate and bring with them. Their final ticket was to bring a bead. All of them would be strung together to create a gift of friendship. The energy that day was full of love and electricity. The room buzzed with collective warmth and wisdom. It was not a day to honor me, but a day to come together and rejoice in all things maternal. All the fertility goddesses and Mother Earth were the guests of honor. I had bloomed and grown confidence in mind and spirit as well as body. I had immense gratitude for an “uneventful” pregnancy and the gift of the physical experience of feeling life move inside me. Just as he did jumping jacks early in the pregnancy, he would give me continual reassurance as he constantly tumbled and somersaulted as we neared the day his upcoming due date: 02-22-2002.
“And one day she discovered that she was fierce, and strong, and full of fire, and that not even she could hold herself back because her passion burned brighter than her fears.”
Mark Anthony
It was a magical afternoon just days from my due date. Why? When Luke went down for a nap, Abbie and I both fell asleep for a catnap too. When I awoke, I had time to myself to assess the “bloody show” and the aches I continued to have in my right leg. By the time the kids were up from an unusually long nap, I was tracking the start and stop times of contractions on a post-it note. Confident that I was in labor, I calmly called my list. My mom jumped on an hour long flight, the overnight sitter was on her way, Tom was headed home, the doula was on stand-by, and I made the kids dinner. I was settling the nest and making room for another. As the kids approached their 8 o’clock bedtime hour, all my support was in place and I headed to my bedroom to “get to work” concentrating on my body opening for the birth of a new life.
After a little more than an hour of playing mind distracting card hands of Black Jack, between rounds of holding the post of the bed to squat through contractions, I announced it was time to go to the hospital. In less than three hours, I would deliver Nate. Getting into the hospital only took a few squat breaks at bumpers, (I have never since enjoyed squatting, chanting deep O for Open, as much as I did that night). I am ready to go, but the intake nurse doesn’t believe me. As I lay in the triage room, calling on my yoga training, inhaling long and deep, in and out, I hear a voice on the other side of the curtain say to her companion, “She is breathing so loud!” I want to share how much it helps, but I shift to listening to the nurse in the hall tell my always large and in charge husband that if this is a first baby, “This is going to take awhile, Dad”. I exchange an amused look with my doula that this poor nurse doesn’t know what she just unleashed. She left to back him up as he made it clear that I knew what I was doing, we had been at home laboring, and to check my file again for the birth plan. He made it clear, (demanded with a smile), that someone better come check me ASAP. It didn’t take long for them to assess that I needed to go to delivery immediately. It reminded me of a medical television show, “She needs to go STAT”. I could see that Tom felt pleased with his power to make things happen, but it would be short lived as he next tried to convince me to put some clothes back on as I entered the delivery room and immediately shed every wardrobe item and started squatting again at the end of a different bed.
My doula got me in the shower and showed Tom how and where to use the sprayer. He made one more hopeful suggestion to “put something on” since a male nurse came in to check on me, but I just wanted to squat again. My water broke, conveniently, over the toilet. Now that it was clear that I would be naked as the day I was born, I entered back into the delivery room and it was everything I had dreamed of: lights dimmed, Enya music playing, and the aromatherapy diffuser sending lavender into the space. My mom and doula were sitting on the daybed having a friendly chat with my OB. All I could think was: Does this look like a tea party? as I moved into I Am Woman, Hear Me Roar mode. I think my pediatrician entered when I was on all fours, butt naked. There is no personal modesty required in my labor and delivery room. As all my advocates steer the staff toward my desires, I finally decide I want to be on my back in the stirrups. I look up and it feels like there are fourteen people in the room. Had there been an announcement over the loudspeaker: “Come on down. We have a drug free delivery in spa room 222”?
Our Labor and Delivery Nurse brought me into the homestretch. She gave us a towel and Tom and I played tug a war during the contractions. She gave me the visual of scooping my pelvis under and up to toss a basketball up into the air. My OB informed me that it would be over with an episiotomy, and after my consent, he called an audible and moved Tom into place to deliver the baby. My doula was behind my shoulder getting pictures of all of it. Nathaniel Thomas was born at 12:32am on February 19, 2002. He had a lot to say and moved as much as he did in utero. When my curiosity spiked, I asked for him to be taken for weighing. He was 7 pounds, 8 ounces and 19.5 inches.
In the next hour, I walked down the hall to my room, took a shower, and ate a burger and fries and drank a chocolate shake. In reflection, I attribute that freedom to having had a drug free delivery. I felt alert, strong, and ravenously hungry. The next day, wrapped in my quilt with all three of my children on my hospital bed for our first picture, I looked over at my mom and said to her in a whisper over their heads, “I have three babies.”
In February of 2020, I signed up for a Memoir Writing Workshop with Irene Graham. I came to the class with plans to write the story of growing up in Southern California in the decade following the quest for women’s equality. Through outside the box brainstorming, the story of my daughter’s homecoming came flooding onto the paper. The pandemic interrupted the pace to finish my two son’s stories.
The project was revitalized as I explored “Sex, Politics, and Reproduction” in a course in the Women and Gender Studies department at Northern Arizona University. Again, I planned to write on a different topic, but I was pulled back to my experiences with infertility and miscarriage and the stigma and shame I felt in my journey to motherhood. The culminating project shares the power of storytelling to heal and give hope for those who have experienced reproductive injustice. Reproductive Potpourri: Stories of Reproduction is the blend of my personal journey, academic literature review, and insertions of all three of my children’s birth and homecoming stories.
I am a story enthusiast. It does not matter the form: fiction, history, memoir, or fable. I like to listen to stories and I like to read them to others. Poetry and music lyrics have a story too. I write stories. I am a storyteller.
Clarissa Pinkola Estes is a cantadora, a keeper of old stories. She uses her research on myths and tales to share the narratives that lead to healing and deeper insights. “Stories are medicine. Stories are embedded with instructions which guide us about the complexities of life”. I was, and still am, a bookworm. Before I could read, I pretended to read. I was given a History Book of the Month membership and a library card. I learned to make friends with the librarians so that I could check out more than the weekly limit.
SNIP
Self-reflection brings awareness and that recognition is the foundation for learning and growth. I hear a call to action. It is time to dive down and reveal my own history with feminism: My story. Brene Brown proclaims, “Owning our story and loving ourselves through that process is the bravest thing we’ll ever do.” To put our life experiences on paper, for the world to see, takes vulnerability. Sara Ahmed notes that the personal is theoretical and to become a feminist is to stay a student. This paper is presented in personal theory, backed by the teachings of recognized feminist scholars. I gather my courage to explore my journey into the history, the economic models, and the political influence of my personal feminist story.
SNIP
Stories can unite. Stories will connect. Perhaps some of us don’t have the words to understand the forces that come at us and make us feel lesser or even invisible, but we all can put words together, and take them apart, and make new sentences as we learn and unlearn. If we record our stories, and share them with each other, we can collaborate and build intersectionality. The power brokers fear that history may be reclaimed or rewritten from the textbooks they wrote and marketed. “Thus it depends on us…to choose what history we might write for ourselves, and the legacy we might want to leave behind.” I write my personal HERstory.
I was born privileged, extremely privileged. Let’s even give it a capital P for Privilege.
I was born white. I was born healthy. I was born straight. I was born safe. I was born secure.
As I put these thoughts to paper, each revision unwraps more and more layers. Some compare moments like this to peeling the layers of an onion. It reminds me of eating an artichoke. As I tear each leaf away, I work my way – to the center – to the heart of the artichoke. Take care with this thistle vegetable. . Each edible leaf has a tiny thorn, and if I am not mindful, I might get pricked. My culinary experience motivates me to get to the center of the edible globe, my curious mind drives me to peel away my experiences to reveal my own heart.
I do not write to justify myself. I do not cast judgement on how others think. I do not assume to understand how others feel. I do not feel shame or guilt. I simply feel a lack of awareness. In the summer of 2020, I am driven to reflect on my own experiences and bring to light what rings true to me, at this moment in time.
I am a truth seeker. I am curious. I aspire to be a solution contributor. I will pursue paths to purposefully utilize my self reflection. As I look at each situation, each day, with gratitude for my advantages, it reveals to me areas I was unable to see yesterday or even moments ago. Awareness seems a key ingredient to support sustained change toward a better society.
What can I do?
Teach other people the barriers of success
Promise to listen and amplify the voices of People of Color (POC)
Be more than NOT racist, become an Anti-racist
Confront racial injustice even when it is uncomfortable
LEARN LEARN LEARN… never stop LEARNING and adding to this list.
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