Birth Trauma ~ Advocacy for Dads

*This post uses graphic terms. This post also names names and conveys strong opinions. I do it without apology.*

 Perhaps the biggest emotional hurdle I've had to deal with in terms of healing from my birth trauma has been the role that my husband played. He was supposed to be my protector, my advocate, my shield. He was supposed to fight for me. He tried his best, he really did. But he and I both were naive and had no idea what kind of protection would really be required. We had no idea that the medical staff who were ostensibly there to care for us and keep both our baby and me healthy would be the ones to cause us to go through the biggest hell we've been through thus far. We did not know that we needed protection from the "experts". My husband did not know that he should not have trusted them, that he should have asked more questions, fought harder, done something. We just didn't know.

 But we do know now. I guess that's the scary part. Knowing. Now that we know, the reality of how hard it will be to protect me and advocate for me in such a broken system should we be able to have another child is frightening. I know all too well that the medical profession says one thing and then does another. They have learned to be quick to apologize and show sympathy, but they still have not learned to bring about drastic change. They still commit birth rape too often. And yes, I said birth rape.

 It is honestly enough for me to consider giving birth at home with only those I would trust. But the list of those I'd trust is miniscule, and it only takes one look at that area of my body with a mirror to remind me that giving birth vaginally is no longer a viable option for me.

 Just last night I looked again because I was dealing with some pain, and once again I was reminded just how severely I tore and how little truth I was told about the extent of my injuries. From my urethra to my rectum, and all up inside of my labia and vagina, my body bears the scars that tell of brutal tearing from incompetently wielded forceps. The fact that those incompetently wielded forceps were used against my expressly stated will and against my right to informed consent makes those scars all the more painful.  And the pain I was feeling last night? Well, that just happened to be from yet another cyst that forms because I must wear pads nearly every hour of the day, thus dealing with fragile skin. Even using a Poise pad, designed for incontinence, only helps so much.

 I have accomplished so much in terms of my healing journey. I have three years of physiotherapy under my belt, and will go back for more when I can afford it. I have many counseling sessions, many birth trauma support group meetings attended, many blog posts written. But despite all that hard work, my life will never be what it was before midwife Heather Munro and obstetrician Duna Goswami chose to commit birth rape. I learn to deal with a new "normal" each day, one that includes baby wipes every time I use the toilet and wondering just how I'll accomplish a primitive camping trip without a flush toilet available for my morning issues with bowel incontinence.

 And so it is with bittersweet emotions that I tell you about a movie that just happens to be coming to Vancouver this Saturday, June 16th. It begins at 12 noon at the Vancity Theatre. Tickets may be purchased online by going here: Other Side of the Glass Tickets.

 This movie is for dads, for all those dads who wanted to protect their wives and their children but didn't know how. This movie is for all those dads who felt powerless. This movie is for all those husbands who dealt with not only feeling powerless, but also endured the loss of trust and intimacy in their marriages. This film is an important project. It is yet one more way our voices can be heard, so that one day, positive change will happen. I dream of it happening soon.

Coincidences? Providence? Gifts, Most Definitely.

Sometimes I have a fleeting thought that it is foolish for me to chalk up a beautiful serendipitous happening to Providence.  As if God would really care about little requests like an unbroken toy train bridge without crayon marks or a bear sighting when there are starving children and other atrocities taking up His time and attention.  There's also that voice in my head that tells me it's stupid to think that He would do little things like that precisely because starving children and atrocities exist, and clearly, He hasn't solved those problems.

This, I think, is where faith comes in.  It's really up to me making a choice to believe or not to believe.  For me, despite all the unanswered questions about why God lets children starve, why wars still happen, why women are widowed and children are orphaned, and why people still die of terrible diseases, I choose to believe that a God who is bigger than I can comprehend with thoughts I cannot understand does indeed reach down to bring a perfect toy train bridge to a boy and a bear sighting to a couple of girls.  Maybe some day I'll understand the whys and why nots of what He does.  But for today, I'm just grateful.

Last week I planned to spend what was to me a large amount of money on some used toy train tracks and train accessories.  I knew the money should really be saved for groceries, but the deal seemed too amazing to pass up, and the provision seemed timely.  My little guy is starting to really enjoy trains, and a little one we watch a few times a month LOVES trains.  It seemed like the perfect idea.

But then I picked it up and discovered that the picture I'd studied online so carefully was incredibly misleading.  The trains, tracks, and buildings were dirty and colored on.  The main pieces I cared about like the bridge and a few special tracks were broken.  I was frustrated with myself for being such a people pleaser that I did not take time to look over the pieces and refuse the purchase in the first place, and worried that my request to bring back the set and get a refund would not be met with willingness.  Thankfully, the seller agreed to take them back and refund my money.

I drove home and just chatted to God about life.  "God, if we really are your children, that makes us sons and daughters of a King.  That means we're princes and princesses.  And princes and princesses don't have to accept what even a thrift store wouldn't accept, do they?  Do we really have to be content with what is essentially broken garbage?  Do you have something better in mind?  Please?"

I was disappointed too, knowing that my little boy was at home waiting to get a "surprise that you can't eat".  I knew he would be sad that I had let him down, and I mentally chastised myself for getting so excited that I had told him even that little bit of information.  A Tim Horton's donut seemed a lame consolation prize, but it was all I could do.

He was so excited that he popped up from his pillow when I got home and asked to see the surprise.  I had to tell him that the surprise was too broken and too dirty for me to bring home, that I was sorry, and that I was going to work very hard to find just the right surprise to give him.  Then I told him he had a donut waiting for him in the morning and kissed his smooth cheek goodnight, and went to go call my friend who was scheduled to arrive the next day for a visit.

I called her and she mentioned how excited she was to get together.  I told her that I was sorry, but my home was not in perfect order because of the day's events, including the train fiasco that took an extra couple of hours out of the day.  She said she was just coming to see me, and suddenly the boxes in my bedroom and the unmopped kitchen floor seemed inconsequential to this perfectionist.  She asked about the trains, if they were wooden.  I said that they were, and then we signed off with "I love you" and a promise to see each other on the morrow.

When I picked her up, it seemed strange that along with her small suitcase she also had two large boxes tied with string, but I didn't question anything.  When we arrived back at my home, she told me that the boxes were for my son from her children.

Trains.  Tracks.  A few buildings.  Two PERFECT bridges.  More accessories than a kiddo could dream of, and in better shape than a mama could imagine.  More than double, maybe even triple, what I'd tried to buy.  For free.  To keep.  A gift of love from three kids who no longer played with them.

It was like being hugged by God.

God doesn't always operate this way in my life, but for this moment, I was swallowing tears of gratitude and wonder at His providence and the way my friend was being Jesus-in-skin to not only my child, but to me.

The next morning we took off, just the two of us, for a park in the mountains where my husband had booked a retreat for us.  She and I caught up on 37 years of living, 11 years of life since we'd last seen each other, and all the growing and learning we'd done in between conversations.  We snowshoed, swam, ate, laughed, cried, talked, napped, had lightbulb moments, laughed and cried some more, and just enjoyed the fact that somehow a friendship that began when we were 9 enabled two grown women to let their hair down and feel completely at ease with each other despite the lack of consistent contact.

And on our way home when the largest animal we'd seen was a Columbian Ground Squirrel, we saw it.  A black bear, maybe a yearling, by the side of the road.  He was placidly eating, occasionally looking at the curious onlookers pulled over to the shoulder to watch him.  We were so close my friend could have reached out to touch him and pet his head.  He seemed so peaceful that it was tempting to get out and get closer.  But with one eye on the rearview mirror to make sure we didn't get hit, the other eye on the bear to make sure he didn't decide to get too personal with my friend, and one foot ready to hit the gas, I soaked up the experience of seeing a bear.

And inside I remembered my crazy prayer on the way up.  "Please, God, could we see a bear?  I mean, I don't want to see him on a hike, and I don't want to be in danger.  And I don't want to have to use the knife, the bear horn, the whistle, or anything else I've got with me.  And I don't want to get attacked or anything.  But could we see one in some kind of safe environment?"

He apparently said yes.  He even let me see it in my very favorite type of comfort zone - the mobility provided by my car.

Coincidences?  Maybe.  Providence?  Maybe.  Gifts to a redhead longing for sweet favors and some respite from the hard things in life?  Most definitely, yes.

Flowers Every Day

This is just a quick post to say that it is wonderful to be in springtime.  It is wonderful to have a three year old boy who knows his mama likes flowers.  And so whether it is the blossoms off the tree in the front yard or copious amounts of dandelions, my kitchen window sill is lined with a never ending supply of fresh flowers stuck in assorted tiny containers.

I think I've fallen head over heels for that little boy all over again.  As a mama I fail him every day.  I never play with him enough, and I'm rarely energetic enough to keep up with him.  But he still brings me flowers.  And he still tells me he loves me.  I'm a blessed mama indeed.

Eastertide & Me

For some reason, Easter is always a difficult time for me. A deep sadness takes over.

It's a time when I remember my childhood and the Easter traditions we had quite poignantly, and I miss my Grandma the most. Even now, pictures of her delighting in the huge stuffed yellow duck with a polka dotted ribbon that I bought for her when she was in the hospital come to mind. I can still here here saying, "Ducky Wucky" and smiling while she traced the stuffed animals form with her hands.

It's a time when I miss being a kid the most, when the reality hits that the special dinner is entirely up to me and not grandmas and aunts and mom. And that special dinner will only be eaten by my tiny little family of Henry David, me, and our Grasshopper.

It's a time when I miss my varied church heritage and history the most. Here there are no sunrise services, no liturgy, no rich hymns, no choirs, no Lenten season lead-up to the day of Resurrection, no rhythm of liturgical seasons in the church, no special Good Friday services, no nothing. My mom isn't in the next room blasting Sandy Patti's music, both to my chagrin and delight. As I looked back on my old blog's archives (closed to public view for the past nearly four years), it's clear that Easter is ALWAYS difficult. And church is ALWAYS the reason. And sitting here now, I have to admit that this stubborn redhead still has not come to accept that this place is different. I'm still inwardly demanding that it change. But it won't. In this instance, unless I change (and I'm not willing or even sure how to go about doing that), I will always feel like a fish out of life-giving water.

And so, in my quest to find something - anything - to encourage my heart, I went looking for an article I wrote in 2008 for a study center located where I used to live and teach, and where my brother still lives and teaches. I read it and realized that even then it was possible to find something good, something beautiful, something true in the midst of the sadness. Four years later, it feels like the bitterness and disappointment have overgrown anything positive. It made me realize that it's an area that needs attention. I don't want to lose the ability to see beauty in the midst of deep sadness.

So as a reminder, here is what I wrote four years ago at the request of my brother. I'm so glad he asked me, for who knew that it would be so important to my own soul's health four years later?


Easter.

I feel so unprepared.

It’s early this year.

As the months float by, I am increasingly separated from familiar liturgy and traditions held dear by friends and family in the Midwest. No one plays “The Easter Song” about hearing the bells ringing and singing about Jesus being alive. And my mom isn’t here to play Sandy Patti’s “Was It A Morning Like This?” on her ancient tape player, as we get ready for church. Out here, near the west coast of Canada, I feel so far from the rhythm of Christian seasons. Or do I? While my church home here is very different from the churches I called home in years past, the creation around me bids me to enter God’s own cathedral. And His creating does have a rhythm, and if I listen closely, it does sound out a call to remember the Resurrection.

After months of gray sky and rain, the sunshine is beginning to routinely pierce the smoky veil that covers our land. The mountains show forth brilliant greens, capped by lacy snow lines, giving way to sparkling white peaks. Down below, the tundra and trumpeter swans visit on their way back home. I love to watch them in their enduring strength and graceful beauty. The bald eagle flies with its young offspring, daring it to soar and swoop. The ducks spy out their nesting places, and one knows babies will soon appear.

Meanwhile, the crocuses and snowdrops are sprouting and blooming. The blueberry farmers are diligently readying their fields, while hundreds of crows and gulls flock to moist fields for dinner. The robins are back, and they sing out their songs while perched on the blackberry vines. Even the peanuts planted last year by the squirrels in our yard are trying to spring out of hiding in hopes that I’ll let them find life and rootedness in my garden.

What has seemed so dead and lifeless is showing itself alive. Could that be my reminder to think on Easter? Could it be God’s subtle call to ponder His most beautiful gift to us in the form of Christ crucified, dead, buried, and alive once and for all? Somehow, I think I can hear bells ringing after all.

Brilliant Parenting Gone Awry

Awhile back, Grasshopper asked how babies get into the mama's tummy to grow there before they are born. I did my very best to explain and give my three year old an age appropriate answer. In fact, I was so proud of myself at the end. (Note to self: Pride is never a good idea.) Now that I think about it, it's a little embarrassing to publicly admit. But it's funny enough to me that it really ought to be recorded for posterity.

"Well, Grasshopper, God gave the daddy some seeds and He gave the mama some eggs. The daddy gives the mama the seed, and if it finds the egg it will grow into a baby."

He seemed pretty content with that answer, and since we'd done a bit of gardening last summer, I knew he was aware of how seeds grow into plants. So I figured this was a pretty good answer. Until last week.

"Mama, I really need a friend who isn't my Mama or Dadda to play with."

"I know, Buddy."

"Mama, I need a brother and a sister too."

"I know, Buddy. I want you to have them too. But you'll have to ask Jesus for that. He's the only One who can help us have a brother or sister for you to play with."

"Mama! That's not what you do! You don't have to ask Jesus! Daddy has to give you the seeds!"

Um, so, yeah, I guess he told me. And when I was telling my cousin this story, she told me how she tells her kids something simple about how God puts the baby in the mama's tummy until they are older and can go into the whole biological explanation. For some reason, I never thought of that. I have a way of making life too complicated, and this experience was really no different. At least it has provided a lot of laughter every time I remember it.

Why Garnet Earrings

Yesterday, I had an important meeting. I was privileged to meet with three nurses who oversee various maternity departments across the region where I live. My purpose was to show them a brochure that I dream of every woman leaving a hospital maternity ward carrying in her hands upon being discharged. Because too many of us are sent home without the support and information we need to deal with things like wound care, hemorrhoids, incontinence, pain with sexual intimacy, emotional difficulties, relationship difficulties, and all the other issues women face after having given birth. Too many physicians think that all these things are just a natural part of being a woman, and too many of them don't know about the healing resources out there to help a woman get her body and her life back. And too many women are embarrassed to even mention these things.

But I am not afraid or embarrassed. And I will continue to speak these words and share my story and my message so that someday all women are free and empowered to speak their minds and hearts on the issues surrounding birth, especially ones that included trauma or injury.

So of course I wore my garnet earrings.

And this is important to share? Why yes, it is.

I will never forget the women at the surgeon's office where I went to first discuss what to do about the fistula that resulted from some portion of my very traumatic labor and delivery. They cooed over my son and rightly pronounced that he was adorable, but then they said something I will always remember. "So you are the cause of all this trouble!"

No. Vehemently, I declare he will NEVER be considered to be the reason for the trauma I have endured. He is ONLY a gift and a delight. He is NOT a source of my grief or pain. The malpractice and mismanagement is the source of my grief and pain. But my son is a source of joy and strength, a reason to get up every morning, and the reason I walked with continual courage through the hell of birth trauma.

And so, when I was choosing a pair of earrings to wear, I considered what pair would be most fitting, a sort of talisman of courage you could say. At first I picked up my great-grandmother's earrings, thinking that I could use a bit of her spunk. But then I saw the garnets and knew that they were most appropriate. I had purchased my son's birthstones for myself awhile ago. Yes, those seemed like fitting reminders of the reason I do what I do.

Every woman should be able and free to celebrate her child's birthday with complete joy, and she should not have to see it as a reminder of pain. She should not have to experience it as a trigger for her grief. She should not have to see that date on the calendar and experience flashbacks of what happened to her body and heart. She should only have to see it as a beautiful day to celebrate the life of her child.

One of the women I met with mentioned just that, how women actually dread their child's birthday because of how it triggers their grief and trauma all over again. She teared up as she spoke of hearing that it happens for some women.

I am blessed in the fact that I was able to make a decision early on that I would never look at my son as a part of my trauma. And I'm lucky that I can miraculously compartmentalize the harm done to me by an unscrupulous and incompetent midwife and a completely incompetent Ob/Gyn from the gift of my son. In my mind and heart, they are as far apart as evil and goodness. Please don't think me bitter at what happened. I have worked through this trauma for three years now, and have forgiven in layers time and time again. But I am not afraid to continue to speak out the truth and call a spade a spade with courage and bluntness. What was done to me was wrong on so many levels. And yes, restitution should be a part of the package. But that is not my focus. My focus is first on my enjoying the gift of my family - my husband and my son. And my second focus is on working with women and with the medical system to protect, resource, and bring positive change so that healing happens much sooner than it did for me.

I wear those earrings as a reminder that I have a son who needs a strong and courageous mama, one who will stand up and work for positive change and for what is right. And I have a voice that I will continue to seek to use to help other mamas, so that they too can see their child's birthstones and only feel joy.

***If you are reading this and are experiencing any of the symptoms or issues I mentioned related to your own experience with childbirth, you may contact me by clicking on my profile and going to the "email" link. I love to provide a listening ear and offer compassion and practical help to women going through these things. I also recommend the groups Solace for Mothers and Vancouver Birth Trauma for caring and competent support among peers who have been in your shoes. You can also find Vancouver Birth Trauma on Facebook where you can comment or send a confidential message and receive a prompt reply.

KONY 2012

Our world is broken. It will always be so until that someday when all things are made right again. But in the meantime, we are called and commanded to do something about the brokenness.

"Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress...." James 1:27a

When I read that, all the crap about "religion" being a dirty word evaporated and the beauty of it became apparent. Because really, what good is my faith if it cannot DO something?! What good is it? And what better thing than to look after the needs of children in distress?!

There are many things about which I am passionate: helping women heal from birth trauma, helping young women find a place of belonging, helping my child grow and learn and thrive, helping my husband by cheering him on in his calling to build up people through outdoor education, helping the orphans and poverty stricken of this world have enough food and shelter and education, helping children in a war torn country have access to education and the truth that sets them free, helping teach beautiful truth to people who want to learn, and this:

HELPING SAVE CHILDREN ON BOTH SIDES OF THE GUN, BECAUSE BOTH NEED SAVING.

Invest the time to watch this video. Share it on Facebook. Blog about it. Write your congressman or MLA/MP. Thank Obama for sending 100 advisors and encourage him to keep them there. Write Stephen Harper and let him know you care about this. If you pray, do the work of praying.

Whatever you do, just be sure you DO something. Don't just let your heart be touched. Faith is only good if it's active. It's worthless if it's not. I don't believe this is optional. In fact, I believe it's commanded. "Do not merely listen to the word and so deceive yourselves. Do what it says." James 1:22

What are you waiting for? Let's go DO.