Anjali Grace Turns 3

Precious Gift

© Sherri Lawrence

When times seem too hard to bear & I l feel like giving up

I vision your beautiful face, the twinkle of your eyes and things of such

The bond we created from my womb to the day you were born

Is a mother and daughter bind that can never be torn

With the strength and guidance of God and the blessings he pours down from above

I want to be the best mom I can be to you and embrace you with all my love

You are as precious as a flower and as gorgeous as a rose

You have been specially made to the very tip of your nose

You are as sweet as honey; such an innocent young child

You are brighter than any star in the sky every time you smile

I want you to be proud of who you are and strive to be the best

Put forth your efforts to achieve your goals and let God do the rest

I will always be your mother first, but I'm also your friend

Your are the most precious gift, that I've ever been given

With All My Love,

Mommy

My big baby girl is 3 years old today. It seems just like yesterday that I brought her home from the hospital.  I miss all the days we spent cuddled in bed nursing. Every day I look at her and my chest hurts from all the love I have for her. She's so clever and active, always ahead for her age. One day I'll wake up and she will grown with kids of her own.  I hope that she knows how much I love her. She's the most precious thing to me and I'm so lucky to be her mom.

I baked her a castle cake today for her birthday.  Two tiers, each two layers, pink frosting, turetts, and all.  She loved it and it made my heart so happy to see her so excited.  I'll have to post pictures later.  They are on my sister's phone and it's sooo much trouble to e-mail them to me.

I Matter Too

"The ax forgets; the tree remembers" ~ African proverb

http://www.cesarean-art.com/html/frames/framesetall.htm

What do you want? A baby. You got one.

People will smile at you and pat you on the shoulder.  "At least you have a healthy baby." they say.  Like I'm not greatful that I have a beautiful little girl.  That the way she was birth mattered more than her safety.  It doesn't.

But I matter too. 

It's like someone telling a tornado victim who just lost their roof that at least they are left with the four walls...some people don't even have that. 

No, more. An image of

laboring in harmony with the child,

in a loving helpful embrace with my husband,

soft music, a gentle cheering section

of nurses and midwives and doctors

in clean white gloves handing

the squirmy grateful puddle

onto my nurturing breast.

I can mourn the loss of experiencing birth and still love my daughter.  I can seperate the two, seperate an innocent baby from the horrific act. 

I wish someone had told me,

I wish I knew how much the section would hurt

for weeks, months later.

Years.

My throat closes up just remembering,

I shudder and get quieter.

I'm physically and emotionally scared for life.  There is a scar on my stomach and uterus.  Every time I look down in the shower I can see it.  I see it and know my soul mirrors my body.

It has healed beautifully, my physical scar.  Just a small white line...barely visible.  Just as my scar on my soul is barely visible to the public eye.  It has also healed nicely.

Most people don't know that sometimes it rears it's ugly head with rage and pain.  Just as they don't know that sometimes my lungs burn and I feel like I can't breath...just like when I was drowning in IV fluid.  They don't know that my scar will sometimes burn like when I was mutilated.

I'm shivering, so cold, please hold

my hand, don't go

away, don't leave me now, they're not

done with me, I'm lying here

awake and my body is open

to the air like some awful hara kiri,

crucified and

DISEMBOWELED ALIVE

 

Nobody understands how it feels to have what was supposed to be the happiest day of my life turn into a living nightmare.  To be so exposed and vulnerable.  To come close to death in the name of modern maternity care.  So alone.

I'm a moderator for a few different pregnancy and childbirth support groups.  I love learning about this topic that has become my passion.  I love knowing that I have helped women that I know have a beautiful vaingal birth. 

And yet, I am so jealous.  It makes me sad and angry that I have not given birth.  Anjali is from my womb but I was not an active participant in her birth. 

I was just a body,

these methodical doctors and

technicians working efficiently,

coldly, mechanically

Like a car they could just

disconnect the battery and close the hood;

I was not a person.

I was not a person for weeks, for months.

Dehumanized.

It was something painful and humiliating that was done to me while I was being killed by the very people I trusted. 

Not beeping machines and IVs and

stretched out on this strange cruciform

each arm reaching to the walls,

tubes in my spine, and the reflection

of my own bloody entrails

in the overhead fixture.

I've had an image in my mind for almost 10 years of what the perfect birth would be like.  I think about it often, more times than I care to admit.  One day I will have a perfect birth but I will never stop loving my daughter. 




WAR STORY

by Mary Most
June 94 After her first ICAN meeting