My dearest Lauren. It is your thirtieth birthday today.
So, naturally I found myself reflecting on the day you made your dynamic entrance into this world. I thought of Ream's grocery store on 2nd west in Provo. The one that used to be a skating rink and looked like a turtle. Yes, this is what I think of when I think of your birth. Right there at the corner of produce and the main aisle, across from the hotdog counter where they sometimes sold Oscar Mayer Weiners ten-for-a-dollar (that's how old you are honey, sorry) I stopped and held on tighter to the handle of my shopping cart to let a contraction do its work and thought, "I can't take this any more. How long will this labor last?!"
Labor had begun for both of us the night before and didn't end until a day or so later. You were very patient. And determined. Just like you are now. You've heard the details before, but here are a few of them again.
We checked into the hospital later that night around 11:00 PM and the nurse who assessed my labor progress in the usual fashion declared, "Wow, you're doing great! You're dilated to a five and the baby is descending nicely. You'll probably be one of those one-push-and-it's-out deliveries."
Twelve hours later I gave in and asked for an epidural. Four hours after that, after you had been smashed into the cradled of my pelvis as many times as you could handle, the doctor said, "Melody, I'm sorry, but we need to do a cesarian section. The baby's heart rate is dropping with each contraction, which in itself is not necessarily a problem, but it is becoming slower and slower to recover and that indicates fetal distress. I need your consent. I know this is kind of scary and I don't want to pressure you, but the situation is serious. Please talk with your husband about it and I'll step out of the room."
There was a nurse in the room who had cared for me during the preceding hours. Her name is Judy and in this moment she looked at me with such compassion, such empathy and understanding of my first-time-mother-fear that I still remember her to this day. She was an angel in that room. One of many who watched your journey from There to Here.
Looking back now, I recall the concerned glances between doctor and nurse several times over the two and a half hours of pushing that preceded this moment. I remember them stepping out of the room before the doctor broke the news to me about your distress. He explained how you began as a posterior crown presentation (crown of the head first–posterior/painful, but not unusual) then progressed to a brow presentation (forehead first) then finally a face presentation (nose and mouth first) indicating that your little head was being tipped further and further back as your body was forced by the contractions down into the birth canal but unable to pass through a too-narrow pelvis. [This is the kind of blog post you get for your thirtieth birthday because your mother is a nurse. And these details are important to me. And to you.]
Lauren, you have strength beyond what either of us understand. You have determination that has allowed you to accomplish great things–not the least of which was enduring your own birth. You are flexible, adaptable and capable of doing pretty much anything you choose to do. Your birth was your first test in this life and you passed with flying colors.
This is where I need to add that timeless observation by your Grandpa Lewis who thought there would surely be lasting damage when he saw the bruises on your newborn forehead and your smashed-paper-thin left ear. The nurse assured me your ear would fill out normally and not to worry. Grandpa was unconvinced. You were "brain damaged" and he was sick about it.
This is also where I need to add the doctor's comments after you arrived as he rested his hand on my arm and said, "You know there is a lot of controversy over cesarian deliveries these days, but I want you to know that a hundred or even fifty years ago this would not have had a happy ending. You gave it your best effort, Melody, and I did my best to hold off until I knew there was no other option. I know it was hard for you, but you made the right choice today. Thank you for trusting me." This is the kind of help, the kind of people who surrounded you on your first day on the planet. Kindly nurses and physicians.
I also need to mention the anesthesiologist from India who stroked my forehead and wiped tears out of my ears as I lay on the operating room table and silently wept from fear and exhaustion. You'll appreciate this, Lauren, because of your love for your Indian/Fijian friends: He added anti-anxiety meds to my IV and said in his Indian accent, "It's going to be okay and I'm giving you something that will make you feel beddy, beddy goood."
Your your grandmas, aunts and uncles were also there with abundant loving support. You are blessed, indeed, my firstborn child.
Your perfect, pink, tiny self cracked my heart open and love spilled out everywhere that day. I can love in ways I never before imagined because of you.
You brought abundant light from heaven with you, no, in you and it still shows–in your love for your family, your generous and willing heart, your creative verve . . All of us who love you are blessed by your unique and wonderful spirit. Your slanted smile appeared within three weeks of your birth, about the same time you began sleeping through the night. You were a delightful child, an amazing and talented young woman and now a beautiful, strong, faithful grown woman.
Watching you grow through your childhood and into adulthood has been one of the greatest experiences of my life and I feel profoundly honored to be your mother today. I feel fortunate to be part of the family with which you chose to walk your mortal journey. And beyond.
I love you, my thirty-year-old child. I love you more than I can say.
Happy Birthday!
Labor had begun for both of us the night before and didn't end until a day or so later. You were very patient. And determined. Just like you are now. You've heard the details before, but here are a few of them again.
We checked into the hospital later that night around 11:00 PM and the nurse who assessed my labor progress in the usual fashion declared, "Wow, you're doing great! You're dilated to a five and the baby is descending nicely. You'll probably be one of those one-push-and-it's-out deliveries."
Twelve hours later I gave in and asked for an epidural. Four hours after that, after you had been smashed into the cradled of my pelvis as many times as you could handle, the doctor said, "Melody, I'm sorry, but we need to do a cesarian section. The baby's heart rate is dropping with each contraction, which in itself is not necessarily a problem, but it is becoming slower and slower to recover and that indicates fetal distress. I need your consent. I know this is kind of scary and I don't want to pressure you, but the situation is serious. Please talk with your husband about it and I'll step out of the room."
There was a nurse in the room who had cared for me during the preceding hours. Her name is Judy and in this moment she looked at me with such compassion, such empathy and understanding of my first-time-mother-fear that I still remember her to this day. She was an angel in that room. One of many who watched your journey from There to Here.
Looking back now, I recall the concerned glances between doctor and nurse several times over the two and a half hours of pushing that preceded this moment. I remember them stepping out of the room before the doctor broke the news to me about your distress. He explained how you began as a posterior crown presentation (crown of the head first–posterior/painful, but not unusual) then progressed to a brow presentation (forehead first) then finally a face presentation (nose and mouth first) indicating that your little head was being tipped further and further back as your body was forced by the contractions down into the birth canal but unable to pass through a too-narrow pelvis. [This is the kind of blog post you get for your thirtieth birthday because your mother is a nurse. And these details are important to me. And to you.]
Lauren, you have strength beyond what either of us understand. You have determination that has allowed you to accomplish great things–not the least of which was enduring your own birth. You are flexible, adaptable and capable of doing pretty much anything you choose to do. Your birth was your first test in this life and you passed with flying colors.
This is where I need to add that timeless observation by your Grandpa Lewis who thought there would surely be lasting damage when he saw the bruises on your newborn forehead and your smashed-paper-thin left ear. The nurse assured me your ear would fill out normally and not to worry. Grandpa was unconvinced. You were "brain damaged" and he was sick about it.
This is also where I need to add the doctor's comments after you arrived as he rested his hand on my arm and said, "You know there is a lot of controversy over cesarian deliveries these days, but I want you to know that a hundred or even fifty years ago this would not have had a happy ending. You gave it your best effort, Melody, and I did my best to hold off until I knew there was no other option. I know it was hard for you, but you made the right choice today. Thank you for trusting me." This is the kind of help, the kind of people who surrounded you on your first day on the planet. Kindly nurses and physicians.
I also need to mention the anesthesiologist from India who stroked my forehead and wiped tears out of my ears as I lay on the operating room table and silently wept from fear and exhaustion. You'll appreciate this, Lauren, because of your love for your Indian/Fijian friends: He added anti-anxiety meds to my IV and said in his Indian accent, "It's going to be okay and I'm giving you something that will make you feel beddy, beddy goood."
Your your grandmas, aunts and uncles were also there with abundant loving support. You are blessed, indeed, my firstborn child.
Your perfect, pink, tiny self cracked my heart open and love spilled out everywhere that day. I can love in ways I never before imagined because of you.
You brought abundant light from heaven with you, no, in you and it still shows–in your love for your family, your generous and willing heart, your creative verve . . All of us who love you are blessed by your unique and wonderful spirit. Your slanted smile appeared within three weeks of your birth, about the same time you began sleeping through the night. You were a delightful child, an amazing and talented young woman and now a beautiful, strong, faithful grown woman.
Watching you grow through your childhood and into adulthood has been one of the greatest experiences of my life and I feel profoundly honored to be your mother today. I feel fortunate to be part of the family with which you chose to walk your mortal journey. And beyond.
I love you, my thirty-year-old child. I love you more than I can say.
Happy Birthday!
