Impossible Feats And Broken Cleats

(or, I've never missed a recap of a friend visit or visit to a friend and I'm not about to start now)

So, without going into too much detail surrounding my relative absence from the blogging community of late, I will embark on this by saying that the unestimable Mr. L. of Cedarloo treated me to a much-needed respite from what has been an incredibly stressful, frustrating, and exhausting beginning to The Great Relax. Perhaps more on that later, time pending.

Last Friday:

Having finished my tenth consecutive ten-plus hour day at work (only one of which included a lunch break), I violently trust my wheeled office chair back into my cubicle locker. "To Hell with this," I snarled between gritted teeth as, ripping my earbuds out and flinging them into the open mouth of my stunned superior, I crammed everything on my desk I suspected I might need on a late night drive into Iowa territory into my shoulder bag. And I walked out of that office with the walk of a man who would not return without a healthy dose of non-work-related non-stop excitement.

It was an utterly uneventful drive, marked by a journey through an 18-song blues CD given me some years ago by a younger Aaron J., and a full pass through the unearthly, ambient sounds of a mysterious artist who goes only by The Fireman. Cory was right by the big picture window just as I pulled in, almost like he was expecting me. Taking only the time to bring a thing in through the door, we traipsed down the lane to this crazy bar which - face it - only gets our patronage because it's within walking distance. My request for a pitcher of a beer that was on tap seemed to meet with about as much understanding as if I had asked the server for a look at his Sanctus. We ended up each drinking two quality beers each, at quite excessive prices. Especially since I had eight beers of even higher quality already sitting in Cory's fridge. But it was all good. It's always good to hang out at a bar with good friends. Loud, obnoxious retelling of oft-told tales and brazen planning for the good times ahead do not rise above the general din of revelrie that surrounds your table. And the fact that some funky-ass gentleman got Bill Withers' "Use Me" going on the jukebox and then cranked it, was quite alright with me. Twelve tiny cheese curd nuggets for $6.95 was not so alright. Then it was back to home for a little quiet conversation (for you see, under the auspices of an utter lack of soundproofing, QUIET is the name of the game in the Bear Den, come nightfall). But going to bed was not so bad - we had a big day ahead of us, what with hanging out with the L kids in the morning and the much anticipated matchup against college-level athletes that were 10 years our junior.

Last Saturday:

Up shortly after daybreak for a big start to a big day. He fed me the breakfast of champions. Juice, toast, oatmeal (sans sugar, cinamon, brown sugar, or - well, really any staple you would find in an ordinary house), and a bannana. Then it was off to check out some good works by a good man. We saw the school where he teaches, the forest he planted, and the prairie which - desipte the obstacles of prairie seed-lovin' birds, needs only a good, controlled burn to sprout into a prairie such as would make a buffalo blush. Then, off to Hartman Preserve for a little hiking with young Jonah who has the moves of Adrian Peterson but, alas, the small hands of Daunte Culpepper; and the unsinkable, 12-year-old Emily, who is game for about anything and about an inch shorter than me. A little forest football was done, my love of dogs calmed the young boy and made him pet and enjoy a pit bull we met along the way, and then we realized it was getting nigh on lunch.

We ran the kids home, then went to main street in Cedar Falls - not too far away from Cory's house and - I gotta say - a real credit to the region. The type of eclectic, vibrant non-chain businesses that really make a community. Think: the types of places you might see in Stephen's Project 365. Well - I guess the common denominator is "college town." But it's a cool place. Cory was interested in taking me to Los Cabos (the restaurant, rather than the place - which I've already visited with a woman, and thus would be tough for him to top). Despite his great professed love of the Southwest, Cory has never been a fan of either Mexican food or the heat, and I've never had the heart to tell him that there's really not much more to the Southwest than those two things. But he was really doing a stretch for my benefit - a first-class host move, and I hope I told him how much he appreciated it. He locked his keys in the Sombrero (an episode during which he lost his appetite for Mexican fare), but then remembered he'd stored an extra one in his wallet (after which he got it back). We then proceeded to eat far more than two 36-year old men should eat before taking on two sub-26 year old former college football players. Did I mention one was a junior college All American?

Then, it was back to the ranch house for a change into football gear. Cory was upset that I was refusing to deck myself out in Vikings apparel (a choice I'd made for more reasons than one) and, in retrospect, it is my hope that he is just as thankful I made the choice as I now am.

Off for football. Now - over the weekend, the New England Patriots beat the Buffalo Bills 56 - 10. That's a team of professionals beating their peers by 46 points. During the course of our game, Cory pulled a floating groin and I ran (chased these two young fuckers around) on both sides of the ball, going out for most of the passes, and covering the receivers most of the time. For a guy that had (to Cory's dismay) a soberly realistic appraisal of our chances going into the game, I played my ass off, literally getting one of the spikes from my cleats shorn off on a rock-hard and bumpy turf upon which I skidded and landed innumerable times over the course of two hours.

(see New England v. Buffalo, above) I think the fact that we finished the game only down 36 points at the end of two hours (final score: 8 - 44) might be enough to vault this "moral victory" into the realm of being truly one of our greatest victories of all time. Yes, we scored eight. Can you believe it? A remarkable, by-the-grace-of-God-type of drive in which, during a rare role revearsal, the usually flappable arm of me led a quick march down the field consisting of a quick threading of the needle to a sure-handed T-Clog during a crossing route just short of the first down, then a "you wouldn't dare!" 30-yard bomb feet from the far endzone as these guys were expecting us to be satisfied with a chance for our first foray into enemy territory of the entire day. One last little shot into the corner of the end-zone, and then -oh yeah - the exclamation point of a two-point conversion to follow. I just about popped a boner. I hope these guys had a good time explaining to their former teammates - now in the NFL - how these two 35+ year old guys, both under six feet tall, neither of whom played organized football, marched down and scored on their double-team defense. Beeyatches.

After that - it was off to shoot baskets for a couple of hours (I know!), and then back to the L-household for a delectable dish of spaghetti with portabello mushrooms and some hanging out, drinking beer in the bitter, windy cold, sitting by a firepit placed in the easement next to a thoroughfare. What can I say? People were honking. They thought we were striking for the local 352. It was good beer. My beer I brought. I explained to Cory why beer is better from a glass, and why amber ale is a good place to start for someone who wants to try good beer.

Then it was inside, and time for the fast-paced action of the Return of the Jedi: Battle at Sarlacc's Pit board game, another beer, and off to bed.

In the morning:

Fond farewells, a stop at Happy Chef for a meal worthy of a man (me solo by this time), and a drive home during which I had time to think and reflect.

Today:

I was quite sore.

Waking Up, Overcoming Fear

(In commemoration of the birth of Rose, just one year ago, I am including this piece written by Sharon, which documents Rose's natural birth. If you are among those folks who get squeamish about a descriptive portrayal of chilbirth, you may not wish to read on. But if you're interested in hearing about this experience - and hearing about the case against excessive medical intervention in this natural process - read on. And, of course, Happy Birthday, Rose!)

Waking Up, Overcoming Fear

by Sharon Hylton

I lay awake. My mind began its middle of the night ritual yet again and ran restless circles around my tired body, wondering, worrying, and planning. I would focus on a soothing, sleep-inducing mantra, only to find myself miles down the road of some new thought. I was 8 months pregnant and terrified.

My first daughter had been born on the train of medical intervention. We had gotten on board when my water started leaking with no signs of labor, and try as we might we couldn’t get off. I had Cytotec, rupturing of my membranes, Pitocin, an epidural, vacuum suction, and the sense that this labor had been done to me. Somewhere along the line I had shut down emotionally, overwhelmed by what was happening. My dreams of a natural birth had been destroyed.

When Lucy was finally born and I got to see her, I proclaimed her perfect and was relieved, more than anything, to be done. I was a mother and I had a beautiful, healthy daughter, yet I felt I had missed out on something essential, something I continued to grieve even years later during the current pregnancy. Here I was, again wanting a natural birth and terrified that this was too much to hope for.

Somehow, in the mysterious way things unfold when they are meant to be, I came across some information on doulas. I hadn’t sought out a doula last time; I would give it a try this time. I found someone quickly, easily, and in the nick of time. We had just enough time for our two prenatal visits with Emme and several phone calls, during which I confessed the deep-seated fears that kept me up at night. Her calm voice reassured me that my fears were normal and that I could believe in myself and the possibility of a natural birth.

The night after our second visit with Emme, I awoke to wetness in my underwear and sinking in my heart—not my water leaking again! I lay awake, tormented by both the thought that I had to sleep to prepare for labor, and the fear that labor would not start. Sleep never came, nor did labor. The next day was spent in frenzied last minute preparations by Dan and desperate waiting mixed with cautious hoping by me as we awaited a call from our midwife.

What relief we felt when late that afternoon our midwife called and confirmed that there was no ferning, no amniotic fluid. Incredible! My heart was filled with lightness. Perhaps inspired by this good news, my uterus began to stir and the world changed. Later that evening, against the precious backdrop of Lucy running down the block in her tiger costume for her first time trick-or-treating, a small aching would come and go at the base of my uterus. It was sporadic and infrequent, but it did not subside like Braxton-Hicks contractions. As I went to bed that night, it continued. When I woke up during the night, it was still going. It kept on going through my morning work meeting the next morning—a steady pulse in the distance, the awakening of a mysterious force.

That afternoon I began to get ready.…just in case….I cancelled an appointment and instead took a nap and a walk…called Emme, called my mom, called my work. I fixed supper and tried to eat. My contractions which had held steady at 15 minutes apart became 5 minutes. And then, talking to Lucy, I found I had to stop—just for a minute—and breathe. The beginning of active labor! That’s not so bad, I thought. But how much more difficult will it get? And how long will it last? It was about 6:30. Would we still be at home in the morning? Hopeful that we might not be, Dan called my mom to come get Lucy and very soon she came to collect her little charge. Lucy ran around as we got ready, full of excitement about getting to sleep at Grandma and Grandpa’s house. I was helping on and off and resting on the ball during contractions. By 8 or 8:30 we finally had Lucy packed up and out the door. That was the last time we saw her as our only daughter, as our small daughter. A monumental goodbye.

I got in the tub and stayed there listening to music for about an hour and then thought I’d try to get some rest in bed. Within moments I realized that these contractions were too strong for sleep so on Dan’s advice I returned to the tub, after calling Emme to give her an update. By now I wanted company. So Dan joined me in the dimly lit bathroom, Christmas choral music playing softly in the background. As each contraction came I would tell Dan and breathe deeply while he poured water over my belly with Lucy’s little teapot. Again and again and again. I began to wonder what possessed me to hold on to this crazy idea of a natural birth. I could not conceive of how I was going to get through hours and hours more of this. But Dan kept reminding me how different this was than last time. This time labor that had started on its own and I was doing great and had come so far already. I was afraid to be too hopeful, but I was grateful that he was so positive and encouraging.

I felt my belly to check Chicky’s position—the head was very high, halfway between the base of my pelvis and my hip. Lucy had also been high and off to the side, so of course this worried me. Dan suggested talking to Chicky, asking him/her to move, so I did. Shortly after that a wave of nausea overtook me and I left the tub for the toilet. After several violent heaves the nausea passed and the contractions were stronger. I wasn’t sure what to do to cope, so Dan recommended we call Emme.

By the time she arrived, around 11:30, I had figured out that it helped to stand and hang on Dan, with my head nestled into his shoulder, while he whispered encouraging words in my ear. His body absolutely could not touch my belly. In between contractions I would sit and rest on the ball. Emme joined our rhythm, rubbing my back during contractions and giving me water when I rested. Dan’s neck kept me safe and Emme’s hands on my tense shoulders helped me release them. My breathing got me to the end of each contraction without panicking. The room was nearly dark and the soft music continued in the background. The backrubs were great, Dan’s words were so sweet, the water felt wonderful in my dry mouth. Dan was so involved in helping me. I was shivering so he brought me a blanket and the heater, and my face was sweating so he got a cool wet washcloth for me. At this point my contractions were anywhere from 2-4 minutes apart and lasting about a minute.

Emme said I was really calm. I told her I didn’t feel calm at all. Panic would rise in me as the aching rose from the base of my uterus, but she said I was doing great. We began talking about when to go to the hospital. Emme said it was up to me, whenever I felt ready. In preparation she pulled our car around to the front of the house for us and loaded some of our stuff. I was nervous about leaving. I didn’t want to get to the hospital and find out I was dilated to 2 or 3. With my last labor I had stalled out at 3 cm for 18 hours, and the back labor without progressing wore me down to the point of needing an epidural. Emme said that 3 cm would be really good. It would mean I was solidly in active labor, and the longest part of labor was getting from 0 to 4.

I now started worrying about the car ride. I didn’t know how I was going to handle being strapped into a seat during multiple contractions. And my contractions were getting stronger, making it hard to stand still. I started shifting my weight from one foot to the other agitatedly, and moaning quietly, my face buried in Dan’s neck. At one point I squeaked out in panic, "I don’t think I can do this anymore!" Both Dan and Emme suggested that leaving soon might be a good idea, since the car ride would only get more difficult the longer we waited. So I agreed to go.

Emme left first so she could park her car and then meet us to park our car. As one more contraction ended Dan and I also headed out into the cold and dark for the dreaded 15 minute ride. At this point my mind was still intact.

The ride to the hospital was, as I had imagined, torture. I had to move—I couldn’t sit still with the intensity of pain deep in my pelvis, and yet I was imprisoned by my seatbelt. With eyes mostly closed I stretched out as straight as I could while strapped in, and gripped Dan’s arm, unconcerned about how this might affect his driving. As I yelled and squirmed my way through contractions, Dan’s desperate updates would reach my ears; we’re on the freeway…we’re heading south now…we’re off the freeway…During the course of this car ride I departed Earth for another world, some deep internal place I’ve never been. Glimpses of outer reality would float past like fish in water when I occasionally opened my eyes.
I felt like a zombie in a tunnel when we got to the hospital. Nothing mattered; smiles were not part of this universe. Only the sidewalk in front of me existed. I was vaguely aware that Emme met us at the emergency room entrance and she and Dan took care of unloading and parking logistics as I took one plodding step after another towards the glass doors. We were barely inside when I felt pain rising within me again. I was desperate for Dan’s shoulder but he was loaded down with suitcases. "Put it down!" I cried and he dropped everything but I collapsed onto my hands and knees and bellowed at the top of my lungs. Someone passed and said something…Then I was able to get up again and we walked to the desk.

A woman appeared with a wheelchair and I sat. We waited. My mouth was so dry…I asked Dan for some water, hoping to drink it before the next contraction…Emme appeared after parking our car, surprised we hadn’t already been taken up. Then the nurse took us up to triage…said something I didn’t understand, a joke, it seemed. I didn’t respond.

We reached triage at 1:06am. Emme has to leave, they said unexpectedly. Privacy, too crowded, or something. So Dan and I were on our own. I undressed from the waist down, Emme having advised me I could leave the rest on rather than wearing a hospital gown. The nurse wanted me to lay down. I tried to comply but the surge of a contraction hit and I heaved myself onto all fours, knocking monitor straps askew and shouting. I was informed that this was not OK, that I would not get admitted until they could get the monitors on me for 20 minutes (20 minutes!?) while I was lying down. "Well, if she needs to be on her hands and knees again, she’s going to do it!" Dan exclaimed in my defense. Somehow though, I managed to lay on my side for them for 20 interminable minutes. My contractions were so intense, I felt completely out of control. My hands were clenched on Dan’s shirt as I breathed into the depths of my guts and yelled. The nurse wanted me to do shallow breathing, though. "Think about it, think about it," she would say with her hands on my chest.

At last, Emme returned. "Breathe it away," she said as I came to the end of a contraction. Suddenly I felt a strange bulging pressure between my legs and a need to push, so I did. A hot wetness gushed out onto my legs. I had the strange notion that no one noticed this, but I was incapable of telling anyone. Someone, Emme I think, tried to mop it up. She called out to the midwife in the hall that my water had just broken and I was feeling pushy. Finally, the midwife came and checked me. "You’re a 10 and the baby’s right there!" she announced. "A 10, Sharon! Isn’t that wonderful?" Dan marvelled. I was amazed on some level, because this blew out of the water all my notions about how labor would progress at the hospital, but I was too busy to celebrate.

Everything was in motion to get me into a delivery room in time. Dan and Emme, our luggage rack, our midwife and a host of nurses pushed my bed down hallway after hallway to a delivery room at the other end of the earth. Whenever I opened my eyes I saw halls hurtling past. I bellowed away, gripping Dan’s hand to keep me anchored. All of a sudden, Dan’s hand slipped away and I opened my eyes to see him receding from my bed. "Dan!" I called out in terror. "I’ll be right there, Sharon!" he answered. Apparently we had reached the room and he couldn’t fit through the doorway along with the bed, but all I knew was that my anchor was gone.

Dan and Emme helped me get into the birthing bed and undress. It was 1:32. I lay on my side and immediately felt a huge urge to push. For the pushing, too, I roared. This was nothing like the medicated numbness I had experienced with Lucy, attempting something I hoped was pushing when they told me to. This was a force that took control of my body. Emme suggested I focus my energy downward with each contraction.

After a few moments the midwife asked me to turn over because the baby’s heart tones were low, possibly because of being deep in the birth canal. After I turned over the baby was crowning. They asked me if I wanted to touch the head so I reached down and felt something wet, wrinkled, and fuzzy. I was ecstatic. I was doing it!

The pressure between my legs was tremendous. I felt a slight burning and fear about what might come out of me, but I realized I had to just let go and push everything. The midwife wanted me to slow down, gentle pushes, but I couldn’t. She said she wanted to put a scalp heart monitor on the baby because she couldn’t get a good read on heart tones, but there was no time. Very shortly after crowning I felt an immense whoosh as the baby’s head slid out, and then another whoosh as the body followed. It was 1:41.

Screams came immediately from this beautiful baby, who was then placed on my chest, wet, warm, and the most amazing thing I had ever seen. In my state, I thought we had a boy, but Dan was able to correctly determine that we had another girl…I felt great. I felt incredible! No exhaustion, no pain afterwards, like last time. Just pure joy!

I lay awake the rest of that night, but this time in disbelief and joy. I had had a beautiful and glorious birth, the most energizing, intense, and otherworldly experience of my life, and now I was soaking up every detail of my amazing daughter Rose as I relived the birth, second by second. I cried as I thought about how incredibly fortunate I was.

This could be the end of my birth story, but it’s not. Lessons from that magnificent experience have permeated my life, causing changes I couldn’t have predicted—most importantly following my heart’s desire to stay home with my daughters, something I was afraid to do after Lucy’s birth. I’m finding I have more courage to reach out to others and to follow my desires, more energy and openness, more creative juices flowing.
It feels as though I’m waking up to my life….And nursing notwithstanding, I’m finally able to sleep at night.