The Birth of Jonah

I have known Shelby as an affectionately fragrant friend. I have known Shelby as a sparkling wife with a five-year grand plan. I have known Shelby as a shell, months later, positively pregnant—a revolting then quiet then joyful surrender. I have known Shelby, now, as a mother. A beautiful, resilient, miraculous mother who, out of every disordered day, craves a lick of sun. Folds baby laundry into these tiny, absurd cubes because she says it makes your drawers infinite. I have watched her wring her hands in disbelief at the unraveling of our last gut-kicking year, I’ve watched her see its blankness and hang a frame around it. 

Kathleen Norris says, “For some reason we human beings seem to learn best how to love when we’re a bit broken, when our plans fall apart, when our myths of our self-sufficiency and goodness and safety are shattered,” and I think that’s true. We learn to be indulgent with our love after having it cranked out of us by every horrible thing. 

She asked me is it a fruitless endeavor to be sharing about the wild birth of Jonah a year and some change later. Which is also to wonder, I suppose, is my healing too expired for anyone to really care anymore? 

But we all take the time we take. And it’s worth taking, isn’t it? Because it’s only out of our precious silence that a word finally hatches, and when it does, we’ve gathered what was previously unsayable and we’ve let it be boundless, lyrical. I am proud to bear witness to such a release and am grateful to host it here. Be encouraged as I am by her story to tell.

. . .

It is important that you as the reader understand that this story may come across as sounding juvenile. It may sound as though it’s being told from the perspective of maybe a 5th grader and while I am a full-grown woman, the evening I gave birth to my daughter and the days following I felt as though I was a little girl all by myself in a very big situation. Having zero control and zero conception for what exactly was happening except for the fact that I was about to have my baby come out of me. I remember thinking as I was laying in the hospital bed when I first got there and was unsure as to how the night would play out and having the nurses buzz all around me and all the needles and wires connected to me that I almost hoped I would be having her tonight. It was almost this exciting and giddy thought, and I knew I’d almost be disappointed if I ended up not having her tonight because then all this craziness would’ve just been for nothing. So anyways, I understand if this all seems like it’s chaotically written. I can assure you the experience itself was just as wild.

On Thursday June 18th, 2020 Max and I moved in with my in-laws. We knew we needed to save money and could definitely use the help so when they offered, we accepted. I was nesting and it felt good to be secure in an actual house again. Everything felt good and on track as I was two months away from my due date. However, over the course of the next ten days Max and I would be exposed to COVID-19. We would both begin to have symptoms of the virus and endure multiple tests. I would gain around 20 pounds and begin to wake up with my ankles, feet, hands, face, and eyes so swollen they wouldn’t open all the way. And these were the first severe signs of preeclampsia in my pregnancy.

On Monday June 29th, 2020 I had a prenatal check up appointment scheduled for 3 pm at my birthing center. I had already been in communication with my midwife about my situation at home, my symptoms, and everything else. They made sure I was able to still safely come in and be treated which I am so grateful for. If I had not gone in for a check up that day, it is truly a scary thought as to what might’ve happened to me or my baby.

I arrived like any other time. I went to the restroom to give my urine sample and waited on my midwife to bring Max and I to the appointment room. The first scare was that there was blood in my urine. The next few alarms included my unusual swelling and sudden weight gain, my high blood pressure, and then most seriously was the baby’s heart rate skyrocketing to 180 bpm. That was the final straw. My midwife let me know that it was time to call the hospital and let them check me out further. I began to get emotional. This all seemed so wrong. While she was gone, Max came over to me and in the most consoling tone, looked me right in my eyes and reminded me that this was okay. Everything was going to be okay. It was time to be strong and if this was the beginning of suffering, it was time to lean into it and do it well. My midwife came back into the room and assured me that she had brought the hospital up to date on my case so that when I arrived I would be taken care of right away. She prepared Max and I for the fact that since we had both been exposed to COVID, he would not be allowed back with me. She then gently laid out my possibilities for the rest of the day: 1. My doctors would either try to give me medicine to lower my blood pressure and keep me pregnant longer 2. They would try to induce labor naturally for me to have the baby, or 3. They would have to do an emergency C-section. Thankfully, I was acutely aware that I could possibly meet my baby on that day. 

On the drive to the hospital, I called my mom to update her and let her know what was happening. I remember feeling so calm. My mom only added to that peacefulness as she assured me that this was a good thing. That plenty of women have high blood pressure towards the end of their pregnancy and to have to go to hospital for it to be monitored was fairly common and did not HAVE to be a bad sign. The drive there for Max and I was almost lighthearted. It was as if we were going on some sort of date night. We were all smiley and laughing in the car the whole ride there. I don’t think we had any idea of what was about to hit us. We pulled up to the hospital and walked in. We sat cuddled on a couch waiting for someone to come and take me away. We just kept giggling and soaking up each other’s presence until a nurse eventually came to get me with a wheelchair. Max watched as they wheeled me away, not knowing when he’d see me again. Not knowing if the next time he’d see me we’d have a baby or not. Neither of us knew much of anything and that was perhaps the scariest thing of all. 

I made it to my room and they had me change into my hospital gown. It felt so vulnerable stripping down all by myself in a hospital room, belly all big and swollen. It felt like I should definitely have someone with me, but I knew there was no time to dwell on that. It is what it is and this is what’s happening now and it’s what’s best is what I kept repeating to myself. I climbed into the hospital bed and in an instant, it felt like a thousand people started buzzing around the room, coming in and out and back in again. This is where it all starts to feel fuzzy and I feel discouraged as I try to think back and articulate exactly what happened in that hospital room moments before I would give birth to my daughter. Looking back, it seems like everything happened in five seconds, when in fact it had to have all happened over the course of at least an hour and a half.

My night nurse was first, coming to put in an IV and take some blood. I remember deliriously giggling and telling her I’d never had an IV put in before ever. Telling her that I’d never been admitted to a hospital for anything before ever. She looked at me in disbelief and then sort of  with these sad, motherly eyes. I’m guessing she was thinking what a sorry reason for this to be my first time for such things. She started to describe everything as if I was in kindergarten, which was fitting for how I felt. Then another woman came in with a massive computer console and video monitor and began strapping all of these round disks to my belly, I’m guessing all to help regulate and monitor the baby better and make sure she was okay. I wish I had a better understanding to be able to describe it all better. The sonographer was mostly silent which made me nervous, but it was as if she could sense it because every five minutes or so, she would reassure me that everything looked very good. 

The moment that everything changed was when my night nurse answered a call on her communication device from another doctor. Since they’re on speaker phone, I could hear them. The doctor asked my nurse if she was up to date on my case and what steps were being taken. She said yes and started listing all of my medications and that they were keeping me monitored. The doctor quickly asked her to come outside the room. As soon as she left, my delivering doctor walked right into the room and up to my bed and told me that I had developed something called HELLP Syndrome. It stands for Hemolysis, Elevated Liver  enzymes, Low Platelet count. From what I can piece together looking at my blood work and speaking with some friends of mine that are healthcare workers, it seemed as though my kidney and liver were sort of beginning to shut down. She let me know that because of this, my health was dangerously at risk and my baby would have to come out tonight, seven weeks early, in an emergency C-section. This was the only moment I remember being emotional. 

I remember the doctor telling me so matter of factly as if this was something that shouldn’t have any emotion attached to it at all. This is just strictly what had to be done. Oddly enough, that felt right to me. It was almost helpful. I looked up at the ceiling and let tears fall for a minute as what was about to happen really began to hit me. Then I looked her in the eyes and nodded my head okay like my life depended on it, which it kind of did at that point. She left the room and the anesthesiologist came in next. He explained to me that usually during C-sections they would keep the mom awake, but due to the severity of my situation I would have to be put completely under. He was extremely gentle and kind and explained every single reason why the decision had to be made, probably because he knew this meant I wouldn’t be able to see or meet my baby right away, but I hadn’t even pieced that together yet. I just told him I completely understood anything they had to do and thanked him. I think I was so blindly unaware of everything that was happening in those moments, I almost felt this odd relief that because of my life threatening situation, every decision sort of had to be made for me. There was no room to want anything different or mourn the unexpected. 

Everything else from here is more of a blur if I’m being honest. Lots of papers to sign, more bloodwork, a couple COVID tests, being prepped for surgery. I remember my nurse taking clippers to shave me, and I remember that as feeling embarrassingly vulnerable, but also hilarious at the same time. Everything was just unbelievable. 

There was a point with my nurse that I stopped her for a second and told her that I knew she couldn’t technically promise me anything and that anything was possible, but my baby would probably be okay right? She would probably live? She almost laughed out loud and looked me right in my eyes to reassure me my baby was going to be just fine. She said that, although I wasn’t to term yet, my baby was the healthiest she could be, unfortunately it was just me that was not okay. My body had no longer become the safest place for her to stay. It was time for her to come out now, for her sake and even more so for mine.

They began wheeling my bed to the operating room and I remember feeling strangely delirious. The nurses kept stopping to ask me if I was okay still and all I could do was giggle and awkwardly shout out, “oh ya!”. Once in the room, they moved me to the operating table and suddenly my bottom half was exposed. I had a quick, sheepish moment, but then reminded myself that this wasn’t anything they hadn’t seen a thousand times. I felt good. Confident. However, my body was not reacting the same. I began shaking so intensely. Like, SO intensely. I remember shaking so bad that I was nervous the doctors would think I had been on some sort of drugs or something. Outloud, to no one and everyone at the same time, I said, “I’m so sorry I don’t know why I am shaking so bad. I must just be nervous I guess.” The nurse beside me peered down at me, and with the most knowing look in her eyes replied, “Oh sweetheart. Yes you are very, very nervous...” After that I was out.

When I awoke, it felt like I’d only been asleep for maybe 20 minutes. I woke up groggy and I remember asking out loud if it was already over. All the doctors and nurses chuckled and told me, “Yep! That was it!” It took me trying to make a very unwise, shockingly painful movement to sit up to even remember that I had just had my stomach cut into. 

They wheeled me back to my hospital room where I stayed for five more days, isolated, until I was discharged the morning of July 4th. In the afternoon of my second day there, the deep throat COVID test they did while I was under anesthesia came back positive. This was one of the most difficult moments. My nurse that day explained very plainly to me at that moment that I was going to have to do most things on my own now. She made it clear that if I ever needed anything, I could always use the call button and they would come. But they would be checking on me less frequently to minimize exposure. I completely understood of course, but it was extremely difficult. And scary. I had to learn to use the bathroom on my own everytime and clean myself up. I had to quickly get used to walking around my room on my own and throwing away all of my own trash after every meal. I had to get in and out of bed on my own to thoroughly clean my breast pump equipment every three hours in the bathroom sink. And everytime I did, I had to reach over and tear off the compressions wrapped around my lower legs that helped bring down my swelling. And everytime I got back into bed, I had to put them back on. It was hard, but I didn’t know any different so it just seemed like what I was supposed to do. Looking back, I get extremely emotional thinking about any woman doing all of those things all alone healing after her very first time giving birth. But I want to make it clear that regardless of my situation, I am so thankful for each and every one of my nurses that took care of me. They were the kindest people and everything I literally had no idea that I needed in those moments. 

Because of COVID, I wouldn’t get to meet my daughter for two more weeks. The hospital was very kind to set up a little camera in the NICU so that I could watch her all day. My sweet nurses also would frequently go to see her and take photos of her on their phones to send to me. They all went on and on about how she was the most beautiful little baby with the thickest head of blonde hair they had ever seen. 

If you’re wondering if I was losing my mind, demanding to see my daughter at once, you might be shocked to learn that I wasn’t. I don’t know why. I think I just felt like everyone knew what they were doing and this was safest for now, so I trusted the process. I decided I would be compliant and just focus on healing. I thought as soon as I’m COVID free, I will get to see her and be with her and it will be okay. It will be perfect, like no time has passed at all. But that is not what happened.

Max picked me up from the hospital the morning of July 4th and I felt like I had never been so happy to see him in my entire life. It felt like I had become a completely different person and I guess I sort of had. It felt like he received me like I was this fragile new being who had come from a long journey that he could never dream of and would never know fully. It felt like he was holding onto me so delicately, but also so tightly so I could never fall out of his grasp again.

As soon as we got back home, it felt like we dove head first into figuring out what we had to do to meet our girl. Everyday was filled with several calls to and from the hospital. Us, checking in to see what they decided on in that one meeting with those very important people that should clear it all up. Them, reaching out to us with constant updates with Jonah to reassure us she was doing amazing and thriving and only getting stronger. Which of course we loved to hear, but it was bittersweet considering we wanted to be actually experiencing those things, not just hearing about them. We tried our best to be patient though. We knew everyone was doing their best. We knew they weren’t all plotting to make us miserable and keep us from our daughter forever. We just tried to stay the most patient and understanding until we just couldn’t stand it any longer. 

After 12 COVID tests between the two of us, Max and I finally received two negatives each, which is what the NICU landed on requiring of us. And so two weeks after our daughter was born, we went to meet her for the very first time. 

It wasn’t until a while later that we confessed to each other that it felt quite anticlimactic. It was definitely exciting, but neither of us got emotional. Neither of us knew what to do really. After having this time to process and sift through all of those memories over a year later, the best way I can explain it was that it felt like I was holding a baby that was definitely cute and sweet and tiny and I knew it was a big deal that I was holding it, but it didn’t feel like I was holding my baby. Not the baby that came from me. Not at all. I know this sounds wild and of course logically, I know it isn’t true, but it felt as though they were just handing me a baby and saying this was mine. This was the one that came from me two weeks ago while I was out cold. 

Everyone promised connection. Everyone promised an abundance of a different kind of love I had never known before. Everyone promised so many things and I only felt like there was some cruel joke being played on me. Of course at the time I wasn’t thinking about all of those things. I do remember feeling worried internally, like I knew I should be responding differently to all of this. But I had nothing else to compare it to and I knew nothing about this whole experience was even close to normal, so I just went with it. I’m sorry because I know that all sounds very dark, but it’s the best way I can explain it. Anyways, a week later we got to take her home.

I always pictured myself breastfeeding. I thought maybe for a year. At least 6 months though, for sure. However, like most of the things I expected to happen, (a natural, unmedicated birth, getting to meet and hold my baby right away, having my husband alongside me for everything) it did not. I had a million excuses. Good ones too. My milk took weeks to come in, no lactation specialist was ever available because of COVID, she had all the lip and tongue ties, she was still too tiny and it made her exhausted to keep trying, nipple confusion with the formula bottles she had to be supplemented with being a premature baby. But really I was just miserable learning to be a mother. And not only was I miserable, I was confused and hurt and terrified because I was miserable. This was something that I always wanted. I only ever wanted this. And in those moments all I could think of, or rather beg for, was anything but this. I remember one night bursting into tears and physically crawling into my own mother’s lap. I was at a complete loss because I loved her so much and I knew she loved me so much because I could feel it. All the time I could feel it. My whole life I’ve always felt it, even in our worst moments. And I was so upset because I didn’t feel that for my own daughter and I was so scared that she knew. And I was even more upset because I knew I was supposed to feel it. And if I didn’t feel it, what kind of a monster was I? My mama held me and reassured me that sometimes it doesn’t happen all at once. It takes time, so much time. So much growth. Every single day. And that’s exactly what I’ve clung to this past year and a half.

This story doesn’t have quite the happy ending if I’m being honest. Everyone knows there are lots of hard days being a mother, but sometimes I get caught up looking back on how things happened for us and it can make me feel…stuck. Like this is just how it is for Jonah and me now. I wasn’t able to meet her and help guide her into her first few moments of life and breath. I’ll never get that back. So now our relationship has suffered and so she will suffer and I will suffer. And I will spend the rest of her life having to apologize to her for not being the mother she deserved from day one. How do you grow from that? At first I felt like I would never. But that’s not true. I have. I absolutely have.

It might seem extremely odd to you that I’m writing this all down and sharing it almost a year and a half after the fact. Truthfully, it has taken every second of the time up until now to process all that happened and how it has and continues to affect the growing relationship between my daughter and me. I realized this the most the morning of my birthday. I woke up and opened gifts with Jonah pulling out all of the tissue paper and Max sitting off to the side, grinning from ear to ear. I realized that I felt good. I felt so good. I felt like I was okay and that this was right, this was how I was supposed to feel. I loved the messiness of it all and I loved that this was my life now. I remembered that was not how I felt a year ago. Not at all. Pretty much the complete opposite. It made me so emotional to feel how far I’d come. I’d grown. My family had grown. And as I looked at Jonah with so much love I could barely contain it, I knew my relationship with her had grown.

My love for Jonah grows every single day. Some days it grows a lot, like leaps and bounds and I look at her and I feel like I could weep with all of the love in my heart for her. And still some days, a lot of days, it feels like I haven’t grown at all. Some days it still feels like I’m taking care of someone else’s child. And this child is still so cute and sweet, but I feel no connection. I feel no depth. I know this process well in my heart now. And I know not to ignore it, but to press in and do things I know grow my love for her. I play music and watch her dance. I take her to the grocery store because she loves it so much. I take her outside to let her walk around and explore. That’s usually when I catch myself marveling at her without even realizing it. And I am reminded. And that is what makes me burst with joy at the thought of many more days with her. And even still, if it doesn’t work that day, then I know there’s always tomorrow.

June, 29, 2020 — 9:22pm — 4lbs, 9oz, 17in