Labor & Grief and Birth & Death

One of the biggest hurdles that I have had to work at in order for me to finally be at peace is the events of those twelve minutes  with Rick, as I tried desperately to bring him back to me. What complicates this is that it took me two years before I finally was able to dig deep enough to even know it was there. Hidden away, but affecting me, nonetheless. When he first died, I knew I did all that I could, it wasn’t guilt that I felt. I carried around a profound sense of disappointment and even as I write this, I realize that isn’t exactly what I had buried deep within but, it’s the closest I can get to describing it.

When I saw his eyes, his mouth agape with a bit of blood on his teeth and the color of his face an  odd mixture of yellow, greenish gray? My initial response was sheer disappointment as I whimpered, “Oh no. Poohy... don’t.” The disappointment washed over me like a tidal wave as it was quickly replaced by sorrow. It filled me. Then, suddenly I was working on him, and the disappointment got shoved deep down where all my painful memories go in a perfectly contained bubble.

I can do hard things. I did hard things as a child, when I was pregnant at sixteen, going through six years of college while  having four young children, and starting my own private practice. Yes, I have done hard things, and I don’t shy away from it, I lean into it. One of the core things I taught my midwifery students was the importance of remaining calm during complications. The clearer our head, the clearer we can see the “list” of exactly what needs to be done to manage the complication, thus improving outcomes. I calmly laid out for my students what I needed from them and the plan of care, never skipping a beat. The confidence my team and I displayed made our patients confident in our ability to care for them appropriately.

As time went on, I gained a reputation as a midwife who was confident, calm, and serene, no matter what the situation. I not only expected it of my students, but of myself, too. We would debrief later because let’s face it complications can be frightening and need to be discussed so we can do better next time. But at the moment, we had a job to do. I expected clear heads and professionalism. Before long,  I started hearing whispers that I had a soft “sing song voice” and the more serious the complication, the higher pitched and cheerful my voice got. I am not telling you this to boast about how amazing I was in the birth room. My point is that I prided myself on being calm and competent. But during a time when I needed to be calm, I was incapable. I struggle with that guilt, still.

When I realized that I needed to initiate CPR, I steeled my heart and gritted my teeth. I braced myself for what I had to do next. For a moment, I felt myself “click” into professional mode. There was a familiar comfort in that, besides, I knew CPR like the back of my hand. Unfortunately, it lasted mere seconds before I lost all composure, I hadn’t even completed one cycle of CPR before I was frantic and screaming. Everyone who loved him was counting on me. On a more personal level than ever before, I needed to save this life. The life of the man I shared 36 years with. The pressure was overwhelming.

 Further, I knew the love that we had for one another was beyond comprehension for most. An awe-inspiring love for one another. The fact that he isn’t here with me today, still rocks me to my core. I cannot believe our love wasn’t enough to bring him back. I tried so hard! Selfishly, it was as much for me as it was him. I knew I couldn’t live without him; it would be as if a part of me was amputated. It was no life without him beside me, I was incomplete.

What I was ill-prepared for was the conflict raging inside of me. My clinical side knew what had to be done and I was determined to do so. My spiritual side was pushing just as hard to let him transition peacefully. That meant I had to stop violently thrusting on his chest and instead pick him up and hold him. That was the only way he would be able to transition peacefully. I would whisper to him how lucky I was to be loved by him, how much I loved and adored him, and remind him what an amazing life we shared. The sensations under my hands made me recoil in horror and come out of my reverie. I knew I had to keep going, even if I didn’t want to. When his first rib broke, I wanted to  vomit. Those grotesque sensations quickly pushed me to the edge of insanity, but it didn’t matter. I couldn’t stop! I felt a dark hopelessness like never before, yet I couldn’t stop. It simply wasn’t an option.

While I kept up with the CPR, I screamed, wailed, bargained, pleaded, and demanded he come back to me. I cringe at the thought that the last thing he heard was my screaming and begging the antithesis of what it should be. I wish I could have held him in my arms, speaking softly and sweetly to him as he floated beyond the veil. But I couldn’t if I wanted to save him, it simply wasn’t an option and yet that internal struggle continued to rage inside of my head.

No, this time I would not be able to remain calm, cool, and collected during this emergency. Yet, I knew that keeping calm was imperative if I wanted to save him. Of all the times for me to fail, this was not it. I was counting aloud while in my head I was screaming “No” with each thrust on his chest. Each cracking rib sent me closer to the edge. Through my tears, looking at his empty eyes shattered my heart repeatedly if that is even possible. I felt as if he were ripping away from me, and I was powerless to stop it.

The woman screaming in the background was making me lose count. Who was it? It wasn’t Hannah. But why wasn’t she making her stop? Where was Hannah? If I wanted to save him, I needed to keep up on my count. Yet, she continued and there was no time to tell her to stop. So, I didn’t. Suddenly, I realized whose blood curdling screams were interrupting my counting.

They were mine.

I have welcomed babies to Earthside for twenty-four years. I was one of those that held space for the sacred moment when a baby is born. I also carry with me a deep-seated belief that we should hold a similar space when someone is dying. It too is a sacred moment. I  have held life in my hands thousands of times. I have borne witness to the warm, squishiness of a newborn into my gentle hands and into their mama’s waiting arms. It is the closest thing to feeling God’s presence. Midwives are the gatekeepers, the watchers over this moment when a baby chooses to take a breath or not. We function as the lifeguards ready to jump in if we are needed, but most of the time we are not.

A few times in the shop with, I was overcome with a love so powerful, I was compelled to pick his head up and hug his neck while professing my undying love for him. Then, panic would take over when I realized this was not the way to bring him back to me. I would gently set his head down and resume CPR furious with myself for wasting precious time. In the initial stages of my grief, I even wondered if those few times I stopped CPR to hug him, made the difference between him living or dying. My medical brain knew the truth. He was gone already, but my heart and soul refused to accept it.

Through this long and arduous journey of grief and healing, I have recognized a vast number of similarities between birth and death. Opposite ends of the spectrum, yes of course. But there are striking similarities I am certain of that. There isn’t comfort in that, but it did help me tremendously when I would have a thought about how difficult this was, and my midwife brain would softly remind me of things that I would say to my laboring mamas when they were in the throes of labor.

The first time I recognized the similarities was on that very first night as we were driving home from the hospital. I was still in stunned disbelief. When I told myself, “I can’t do this. It’s too hard.” My wise, inner midwife would gently say, “Yes you can. Don’t focus on what lies ahead, just focus on getting through tonight.”

When other widows would share with me their experiences or tell me how many years it took them before they felt “normal” again. I would feel a panic rise within. I would think, “I can’t do that for seven years! There’s no way. That’s so long.” I was reminded of a laboring mama when she heard that she still had five more centimeters to go. In her mind, she had too many painful contractions to count. I would gently encourage her, “Don’t think about the contractions ahead, it’s too overwhelming. Focus on one contraction at a time. I’ll help you.” For me, hearing the daily pain of grief could last for years became the “labor,” and each day was a “contraction” that I had to find a way to get through. So it began, each day at four pm, I would feel relief that I made it through another day. I wasn’t sure how, but I did. But, if I thought at all about the years ahead of me, fear would flood my body and I would declare, “ I can’t do this anymore!” It became a constant battle within to only focus on one day, one contraction at a time.

I think about the first night when I was confident that I wouldn’t survive the night without him. Slowly, it became I can’t survive the next weeks, then it was months, six months. When suddenly it became years. Each milestone I reached, I felt proud as I realized that I was stronger than I ever knew was possible. I would remind myself; I CAN do this. I AM doing this. And my mind would drift back to me sitting at the bedsides of laboring women when they would cry out in pain, “I can’t do this.” And I would look them in the eyes and gently say, “Yes you can. You ARE doing it and you’re doing it beautifully! You are so strong.”

Those words resonated deep within my soul. While I could never look at grief as a beautiful thing, I WAS doing it. It might be messy as I tried to navigate the unchartered waters of grief.  Some days it was chaotic and utterly terrifying. I’m sure I didn’t do it right or perfectly, but I refused to give up and that’s what matters.

There were times I would witness a woman singing in labor, or the one that sounded like a firetruck. As the contraction peaked, so did her voice. While to some that may sound horrible. To me it was beautiful as that woman found her rhythm in her labor and it got her through it. She went on to have four babies with me and with each one the “fire truck” showed up. She was strong and magnificent as she labored and breathed her babies out. As a midwife I had women who needed help and reassurance through her entire labor, with every single contraction. There were women who simply needed to know I was sitting with them, quietly witnessing their miracle and hold space for it. Some women only needed help during transition. Some danced through labor. I was there for them as much or as little as they needed me and each labor I was filled with awe at those women’s strength. It was beautiful and unique every time. The same can be said for grief. Some of us grieve loudly, some quietly. Some of us required help along the way. Sometimes we simply needed someone to sit with us. The way each of us grieves is as unique as labor and birth, and we simply have to find our rhythm.

 I think back to each and every time I cried out in pain, “I can’t do this anymore!” And yet, somehow, I did it. Somehow 4pm would roll around and I would feel relieved that I made it through another day. He is my first thought upon waking and my last thought as I fall asleep.