Nacemos (we are born)

I've got my rear plumped down on the rainbow beanbag, wearing my new Guatemalan nino who doesn't like to be far from human skin and heartbeat, finally finding a moment in time for me to write that doesn't seem like it needs to be filled with something else. He's sound asleep, gurgling, sticking out his tongue every now and then, practicing his pro sucking sounds and fighting off a newbie darth vadar like nose cold.

What can I say, the last 3 weeks have been a whirlwind and timewarp rolled into one. His start into this world began with a sudden surprise and heart-stab disappointment with me needing to be induced due to his decelerating heart beats during a routine non-stress test. We went in for this test thinking we'd be out in a half hour and ended up spending the night in the hospital and staying for a subsequent 4 day rollercoaster ride. Despite the IV pitocin pushed through my veins, medically trying to mimic labor's natural progression, Rye's labor and birth into this world was joyful, empowering, wrenching, and utterly amazing. Nothing more than bliss filled me up as Matthew and I reached under Rye's supple shoulders and pulled him up, out, and free of my body into this world. He let out a powerful roar, spreading wide all his limbs and then curled himself up pillbug tight, now feeling the pulse, breath, life, outside on his mamas belly. They say I was glowing, and I have no doubt that I was.

I think it was that glow that sustained me over the next few hours as my placenta failed to break away from the wall of my uterus, only coming off in pieces, and I began to hemorrage. I knew that things were not going right, understanding that the delivery of the placenta is in fact one of the most dangerous times for the mother. Glancing down into Matthew's face I could see panic, fear and I wished for him to not know so much about medicine and what was happening to me. Within 20 minutes of birthing Rye our room full of ecstasy crashed. I was rushed out, down the hall, into emergency surgery like a bad TV medical drama. My husband and baby were left alone in the dim lights of the room. I remember feeling strong, but hurting, being short of breath, feeling dizzy, yelling out my bloodtype, my allergies as they prepped me in the hallway. Unbelievable, is all I could think, after being induced, birthing natural without any drugs, having my sweet boy in my arms, Matthew at my side, enraptured by my first family --now alone, under bright lights, panicked unfamiliar faces, operated on, letting someone else save me instead of being my own warrior. I held on tight to Jan, my midwife's hand and drifted from consciousness.

Waking up in the post-op room, it fast-dropped on me like a waterfall, my body and being shuddered and sobbed. Again, I felt disbelief in myself, my body, how could it fail me, after feeling so strong, so sure with his birth, all that confidence was all so quickly ripped away. And there I lay on the stretcher, without my new family, full of IV's, all stitched up, bruised, getting morphine, nothing like I had imagined or wanted. I recall being told that I was lucky to not have lost my uterus, lucky to have been in the hospital, blessed to be alive. As in a haze, Matthew with Rye swaddled, walk into the room. The little guy latches on like mama was never away and Matthew holds me tight, feeling his face, his skin against me, his tears mixed with mine.

And so the birth of Rye on February 15, 2007 - an exact year to date from the day we wearily planted our feet upon the Guatemalan soil - not only birthed a whole new family, it bound tight a marriage, a friendship beyond words, beyond this life. It curls all around us, reminding us to be ever so present, ever so alive, forever grateful.