A long December..

..and there's reason to believe maybe this year will be better than the last. ~ Adam Duritz

Now before I get started, I would like to acknowledge that many others have suffered great losses, homes and jobs.  My struggles are mine alone and by no means do I mean to compare or belittle anyone else in their personal experiences.  I am merely grateful that my hard won lessons were learned without extreme damage to my family, especially my children.

As many of you know, one year ago Adam and I came across "a deal of a lifetime."  We had an opportunity to move to a bigger,"better" house than the one we live in now.  We made a deal with a builder that sounded too good to be true.  As it turns out it was..  We lived in that house for seven months, looking back they were the longest seven months of my life. How can that be you say?  I lived in a house that had a walk-in pantry, huge kitchen, a jacuzzi tub and enough bathrooms and space that we never needed to cross paths in the crazy morning.  The space was blissful and yes, I miss it.

It's what happened in those seven months that give me pause to this day.  I became increasingly uncomfortable in my own skin.  I felt like I was trying to live up to an image that wasn't me.  Adam and I made numerous trips to lenders, trying to find that perfect loan so that we could officially buy our "dream house."  Every rejection only stressed us out and made us feel imperfect.  It became increasingly evident that to keep that house I would have to continue to work two jobs.  Teaching at KU had been a for fun job, I never wanted it to be a requirement.  That made me bitter.  Our children became increasingly aloof and Zach became prone to extreme tantrums and anxiety.  To top it off, we became stuck in this house as the summer led to a horrible drought and heatwave.  It's like we were in hell and we had made a deal with the devil.  It became more and more apparent that we had been lied to and that we were naive in thinking this was meant to be.  It also became more apparent that our new mortgage payment would be nearly twice what we were used to paying and we were crunching numbers to try to make it work.  I refused to leave that house, it was my dream and I had worked so hard to get there.  Or so I thought..

During all of this, I had been invited to visit orphans in Rwanda with one of my favorite people.  I also had the opportunity to take Annabelle with me, an opportunity of a lifetime.  I knew I had to work hard, save and fund-raise to be able to go on this journey.  One day, during our many financial discussions where Adam kept telling me that we had made a mistake and we should go home, and me refusing to leave, he made a profound statement.  "If we stay here, Sarah, we will not be able to send you to Africa.  There will simply be nothing left."  That was like a dagger to my heart.  How could I live in excess when there are many with nothing?  How could I sacrifice a chance to hug, hold, show God's love and give the gift of time to an orphan?  What kind of example would I be showing my children?  That was enough for me and the decision was made to return home. 

We moved home on our 14th wedding anniversary and it was not easy.  We were raped by a moving company that took full advantage of our situation.  The day was long and full of heartache.  What had I done to my children?  Would they be alright?  I couldn't help thinking about all I could have done with all the money and time wasted on trying to stay in that house.  My children's reaction to being home was what healed my heart.  As we came into the doorway, they each started talking about memories they had shared here.  We have lived here for 11 years, all of their lives.  What was I thinking by trying to "improve" their lives by moving them to a "better", bigger house?  They had all they needed all this time and so did I.

Our decision to move back became even more validated for me yesterday.  We were putting up our Christmas decorations and I thought I could put the tree in a new spot.  Annabelle reminded me that it had always been on the other side of the room.  I was going to not put up the cheesy, light up Santa that sits on the mantle, until Amelia asked for it.  My heart was full when Zach stated, "I'm happy that we came back in August, so that we could have Christmas here."  This is their home. 

So this Christmas, I challenge you to think about what you really need.  What does this season really mean to you?  Practice living in contentment, I'm doing it now and I feel richer than I ever have before. 

Merry Christmas.

A letter to my mother

The call came in early on Monday morning.   I have always wondered how I would feel when I found out you died.  I figured I would feel indifferent and often wondered if anyone would remember to call me since I had not had contact with you for ten years. My sister had called me a little after 5 in the morning.  I admit I ignored the the ringing phone when I saw who it was.  Nothing good ever comes from random phone calls from my sister.  I waited for it to go to voice mail so that I could decide when to call her back.  "Sarah, our Mom died, please call me."  I was surprised by my child-like tears and wails that poured out of me the moment I heard of your passing. I felt like a small child that had lost her mother, then I realized I was a child and I had lost my mother.   That day it was forever and that hurt so much, there was no going back since I had already lost you so long ago.

I became frantic.  I began trying to grasp memories of us together, GOOD memories and nothing would come to mind.  I gathered what few pictures I could find of you that I had and announced to the world that I had lost my mother.  I needed to get it out and over with so that I could do what I have been doing all my life..moving on without you.  I couldn't do it, I couldn't stop crying, couldn't stop feeling guilty that I didn't reach out.  Feeling sad for opportunities lost.  I'm glad you will never know that I was within 20 miles of you in June.  I was attending a conference in Long Beach, the same town you lived in.  The whole time I was in Long Beach I thought of you.  I had my daughter with me, my Amelia.  My mini me.  I watched her playing on the beach and imagined you watching me playing on those same shores.  Did I once make you happy?  I wrestled with the decision to call you, let you meet my daughter but feared rejection for me but mostly for her.  Now I will never know.

Then came the condolences.  I felt like a fraud when people offered hugs and support and, "sorry for your loss."  While I appreciated all of the outpouring love, I couldn't shake the feeling of being something I'm not.  I am a grieving daughter but not in the sense anyone else might grieve.  I grieve that I cannot remember anything exceptionally happy about what little of my childhood I spent with you.  I feel guilty that I feel I should write a tribute to you and can't think of what to say.  So I'm going to be honest.  Mental illness or not..you were a horrible mother.  I know some of it you couldn't help but it doesn't make the hurt any less.

This is the house that we last lived in together. It's less than two miles from where I live now.  I pass by this house frequently and think of our time there.  You had left your husband in California, my step-dad.  It was just you, me and my sister.  You worked at a bar and was gone a lot.  I remember you yelling at us to get out of bed on school mornings, screaming at us to be quiet while you continued to sleep.  My sister and I would get ourselves ready for school.  Often, there would be no food in the refrigerator and we would go to school hungry.  I'm guessing that this hardship was what led you to your next decision...

The picture is grainy but if you look close you can see the steps outside of the house by the front door.  Remember? This was my grandmother's farmhouse, it is also about 2 miles from where I live now.  When I was six, you started dropping us off there on weekends to reacquaint with my Dad and his new family.  Every Sunday you would come back to get us and while our lives in that little house was hard, it was our life.  One Sunday, I sat there for so long and you didn't come.  You had decided that it was best if my sister and I lived with our Dad.  You didn't say good-bye... my six year old heart still aches sometimes when I drive past this house.

After your death, I became desperate to know that you thought of me sometimes.  My sister had talked to you the night before you died, the first time in two years.  She does not say that you mentioned me.  I asked my step-father if she ever talked about me.  You would think a white lie would be appropriate at a time like this, but to no avail, he said no.  I asked him if she ever regretted leaving me that day at the farmhouse.  According to him, she had not, she had moved on..wow.

My comfort came to me a few days after you died.  I was talking to my sister and she was telling me that she was already up the morning that you died and she got the call.  I too, had been awake it was 430 am and I thought I heard a sound, felt something.  I got up and wondered around trying to figure out why I was so awake while 500 miles away my sister was doing the same thing. We later found out that this was around the time they think you died, 230 am, California time.  I believe you were healed at the moment of your death, Mom.  I think you came to tell us that you were okay and that we are loved. I am grateful for that moment. I will see you again and all our grief will be erased.  Until then, rest in peace.

My kind of midwifery

Future Midwife?

Recently I was in a parking lot waiting to get into my car.  I proudly display a bumper sticker that declares my passion to serve women as a midwife.  I was eavesdropping as a woman getting into the car next to mine was explaining to her daughter what a midwife does.   I was glad to hear her speak so highly of midwives, but when she stated that midwives deliver in a home birth setting or birth centers, I felt I had to enlighten her.  "We also deliver in hospitals."  She turned to me with what seemed to be scorn in her eyes and stated, "Not if you are the right kind of midwife."  Ouch.  What does that mean?  How can there be a right or wrong kind of midwife?  Doesn't the word itself imply that if we call ourselves midwives we believe in caring for women?  I know, I know ... there is the age-old argument about training, education, certification and location.  That is all worthy of debate, but that is not what I'm here to discuss.  It's what midwifery is and can be regardless of location.  For me and many of my sister midwives, it goes beyond the birth experience.  Midwifery for me often has nothing to do with birth.

She sits on my exam table.  Her eyes are sad, her shoulders sagging and her demeanor darkened.  I pull up a chair and look at her.  Most times, I don't have to say anything.  She just starts talking, weeping or getting angry at whatever situation is bringing her down.  I don't counsel, I just listen.  I hold hands, hug or offer a shoulder on which to weep.  I midwife her the best I know how.  Sometimes their sadness becomes my burden for a short while, but it's worth it to me.  I cannot solve the emotional pain or tough situations that some of my patients are going through, but when they stop to thank me for listening ... that is midwifery.

I get to talk about sex.  A lot.  More than most people would think. I suppose people think since I know how to get babies out, I must be the expert in the act of conception.  I am glad women feel comfortable asking me the tough questions about libido, orgasms and proper lubricants.  I just wish I had all the answers!  The freedom to discuss sex and contraception should never be taken away from women, and I feel my job is to protect women's sexual freedom ... that is midwifery.

The above picture is Louise.  Her father took this picture, and her mother said I could use it.  She is one of my mini-midwives.  I love siblings.  Forget sibling classes, I feel the best way to prepare siblings for the arrival of a baby is to bring them to as many appointments as possible.  I love to include children in measuring Mommy's belly.  I take their little hands and show them where to feel for head, feet or bottom (I often get giggles when I say "bottom").  The best part is letting them try to find the baby's heartbeat. And sometimes I feel sibling rivalry starts young, as the babes in the belly will wiggle as in protest to their older sibling finding them.  If I get caught up in my routine of questions and concerns, and start the exam without the help of my mini-midwives, I am quickly reminded.  "No, Midwife Sarah, that's my job..."  By allowing children to be a big part of the prenatal visits, we help them welcome their new siblings into their routine ... this is midwifery.

The woman in the parking lot made a snap judgment about me based on a location.  Midwifery is so much more than location, so much more than birth.  Midwifery is about sisterhood.  Midwifery is about humanity.  Midwifery is "with women" no matter where they are in their lives.