Womb Talk, Part 3

When Max was two, we decided to have another child.  It didn't take longer than a few months for me to get pregnant.  We liked the potential spacing of three years between kids.

This pregnancy became problematic .  I had been taking dance classes with April Saas in her home studio.  One day, she informed us that her daughter had contracted German measles.  I got very scared, as this disease can cause some nasty birth defects in a developing fetus. We kept on, hoping that I hadn't been close enough to be exposed.  But then, just before Christmas 1977, my obstetrician could not detect a heartbeat.  I was four months along, late for a miscarriage, but it became clear that that was what was happening.  I did not spontaneously abort and so I was sent to Stanford to get a D&C.  Things went badly from the get-go; the resident in the ER assigned to put in an IV could not get it placed and repeatedly poked me until he finally had to call for someone else to do it.

 

I was conscious for the procedure, getting a local anesthetic.  It did not do what it was supposed to do, and I was in excruciating pain.  Don Creevy, my doctor. kept offering me Demerol, but I remembered how badly that went when I was in labor with Max, and so I kept refusing.  Finally, in desperation, I had to agree, and thankfully, this time it worked for me.  Don felt so bad about the whole thing that he stayed with me the entire time I was in recovery.

 

That was a hard Christmas.  The physical pain I had suffered was nothing compared to the emotional pain.  I'd failed once again. People kept saying that it probably happened because something was wrong with the baby, and it was better to lose it now.  Maybe they were right, but that was not comforting.  I looked for books to read about miscarriage, but I found very little.  My mother and sister wanted to be supportive, but one had lost a baby closer to term, and the other had given birth to a baby that only lived a day or two.  My experience wasn't "as bad" as theirs.  That didn't help, either.

 

I went to Wilbur Hot Springs with friends over new year's to work on healing myself. Wilbur has always been a healing place for me, and going there was a good decision.  It was there that I realized that I wanted to work with a psychic teacher some of my friends had been seeing.  My loss and grief led me to a teacher that I needed in my life.

 

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It took me some time to heal from the miscarriage and feel ready to try again.  When Max was four, we decided that it was time.  This pregnancy went smoothly.  I didn't love being pregnant the way I had the first time.  Of course, I was nervous about carrying it to term, and I had a young, active child. I was also now over 30.  I felt the difference in my body, being five years older.

 

One traumatic event did occur during my pregnancy.  I was picking Max up at daycare when he climbed up on a bench and suddenly leaped off, expecting me to catch him.  Instinctively, I covered my belly with both arms to protect the baby, and Max fell hard, breaking his leg.  I felt so terrible!  I didn't decide to prioritize the baby over Max; I just spontaneously acted.  Poor kid.

Pregnant me and Max with a broken leg

 

We were working with Dr. Don Creevy again, but now a birth center had opened.  I believe he was the only MD who agreed to work there, and we were one of the first families to use it.  Unfortunately, the center didn't last for more than a few years, but it was wonderful for us.  I couldn't have tried a home birth again, but this was a great alternative.  The Birth Place was housed in a residential home in Menlo Park.

 

I went into labor in earnest on a Sunday night.  Don was out of town for the weekend and had told me earlier to drink some alcohol to slow things down when I suspected I was going in labor. He fortunately made it back, and I think I was in hard labor for about 12 hours altogether.  I remember when the contractions came fast and furious that I told the nurse, "I can't do this."  Her response?  "You don't have a choice."

 

Max was there with our friend Janis.  Towards the end, he got scared by the noises I was making, and Janis took him into the living room, so they missed the birth.  Alex was perfect.  We only stayed for a short time in order to avoid there needing to be a shift change.  Our friend Richard took pictures.  We have one that I love of Don sitting in a rocking chair, calmly drinking tea and reading The Bhagavad Gita.

 

Having a normal birth experience and a healthy baby helped assuage my guilt over Max's birth, but it didn't completely heal it.  At least, I did feel less like a failure.  We hadn't made any stupid decisions and we had a doctor we trusted.

It Begins with a Call: An Old Story of Suffering and Healing (Part 13)

Speaking of wisdom figures and guides…  This is an old story of suffering and healing.

My second pregnancy did not begin well.  I was attending a dance class at my teacher’s home studio.  Her daughter came down with the German measles, and so I was exposed to a disease, which if caught, could cause my baby to be injured or deformed.  Just when it seemed that I had overcome that hurdle, before Christmas, at four months along, I went for a checkup and my doctor could not detect the baby’s heartbeat.  He expected me to miscarry, but when I didn’t, he decided I needed to have a D&C to remove the fetus.

I was awake in the operating room.  They gave me local anesthesia, but it didn’t take.  I felt every horrific scrape.  It was torture.  They recommended that I take Demerol, but I’d had Demerol when I was in a difficult labor with my son; not only had it not helped with the pain, but I had felt unable to cope because I was doped up.  So I kept refusing, but finally the pain was too much for me, and I gave in.  Thankfully, it worked for me this time.

I don’t know whether the child was a girl or a boy.  They told me they couldn’t tell.  I’m not sure if I remember them saying this or if I’ve assumed it, but there was something about it being pulled out in pieces. (Sorry for the gory details.)

I grieved for that child.  It was a hard Christmas that year, and I was grateful for my two-year-old.  Before New Year’s, I went with some friends to Wilbur Hot Springs to work on healing myself.  Barry stayed home with our son.  It was the right thing to do, the right place to be, in those healing sulfur waters, in nature, in the peace and quiet.  I took care of myself.  I rested.  It was at Wilbur that the thought arose that I should go get a psychic reading with Pam Neal, and maybe take her class.  My friend Janis was studying with her and thought a lot of her.  I had never, until now, been motivated to see Pam.  Suddenly, I knew that this was my next step.

This kind of unexpected inspiration has aways been significant for me, an impulse to act that arises seemingly from out of the blue.  I have learned to listen to those because the messages are always strong and clear, and these flashes don’t come often.

So, I came to my next teacher, whose influence on me was profound and lasting.  It was a big commitment, driving up to Napa from the peninsula once or twice a week.  Pam eventually moved away, and we eventually lost touch.  I know that she died young, and that saddens me still.  I am so grateful to her.  She taught me all I know about energy, about grounding, about intuition.  She helped me heal myself, and she helped me go forward.

My SoulCollage® card for Pam

This is a story of suffering and healing.  The attending grief?  It diminishes, but it never fully leaves. Many women have stories like this.  After you have a miscarriage, you begin to hear them.  

But it took me to my next important teacher and guide.