Full breath

I have been drowning for eleven years. Eleven long years of not being able to breathe. Of being frightened out of my wits. Today, September 3, 2015, I was finally able to take a breath and breathe.

In 2004, I was raped by someone I did not know. I felt worthless and like trash. I was used garbage that no one would want. I was afraid that if anyone found out what had happened, they would ignore me, or worse blame me. That is exactly what happened-at first. I was treated the way I felt- like trash that needed to be gotten rid of as soon as possible. My friends that knew tried to support me to the best of their knowledge, but the damage was done. I was tainted. Even after marrying Michael I felt like I didn't deserve to live nor was I healthy enough to fully appreciate someone who truly believed that I was special and untainted.

The past two weeks I have been attending Intensive Outpatient Therapy through Provo Canyon Behavourial Hospital. The last couple days we have been talking about cognitive distortions-those thoughts we all have that are false-and how to challenge those thoughts by looking at the evidence both for the thought and against the thought. At first I thought that I would never be able to apply these principles to my thoughts, but I decided to try it.

I wrote down the situation, my initial thought and emotion, evidence for and against that initial thought, and then the realistic thought. So, what was that initial thought? I'm sure you can guess. It was "I'm worthless and it is all my fault." Do you how twisted that is? Someone took advantage of me, destroying themself in the process, and I thought it was my fault?! That was what I realized today.

It wasn't my fault.

It wasn't my fault.

It wasn't my fault. 

I finally knew the truth. I am a worthwhile person with a lot of people that love and care about me. It wasn't my fault that a man in his thirties raped a girl in her teens. It wasn't my fault that someone cared so little about themselves that they had to hurt a young girl to try to make themselves feel manly. It wasn't about me. It was about him. It was his decision. Yes it affected me, but he's the one that's going to have to answer for that.

Today I realized that I am no longer his victim. He no longer has control over me. Today I was able to get my head out of the water and breathe for the first time in eleven years, and it felt amazing. I suddenly felt like I could fly. I felt genuinely happy. I've let it go. I'll always remember that incident, but I can finally look back on it for what it is- a true learning experience.

Selfish

After reading one of these blog posts, I had someone inform me that I was being selfish for putting so much effort and time into becoming healthy. Their reasons were that I was taking time away from my children and husband and shouldn't be putting time into myself, that as a mom I need to put my children's needs above my own, and finally that mental illness is greatly exaggerated. I smiled when this person was relating their reasons why, in their mind, I am being selfish. When they finished I thanked them for their input and told them my reasons for being so serious about getting healthy.

1. I'm not taking time away from the family as much as I was when I was really ill. I couldn't take care of the kids, my husband, or myself and I wanted to leave them on a more permanent basis. That was taking time away from my family and their needs. With me getting better my children have their fun, energetic mom back and my husband has his wife back. Because I'm feeling like me again I am able to spend more time with my dear family and grow closer to them. We are able to play different games and I am coming up with creative ideas of how to bond with my family, and others. Yes, becoming healthy takes time but not as much time as being ill.

2. I am a worth while person and I deserve to have time put into myself. I have a lot to offer those around me and I'm not going to shrink away from shining anymore. I am valuable. I am priceless. I am special. I have a right to put some time into myself.

3. I agree that as a mom I should be putting my children's needs above most of my wants, but there is a line there. If I am constantly addressing the needs of my wonderful children, and never acknowledging mine, I become an empty shell again. If I were to have a good day would depend on the behaviour of the children. Were they good? Were they happy? I would be thrown into a pit of despondency whenever they were to throw a temper tantrum. I do know they have needs and I meet those needs, but I cannot place them on a pedestal above me. It's like when you're on a plane and you are told to put the oxygen mask on yourself before your children. Is it because as parents we're more important than our children? No. It's because we will not be able to help them if we are unconscious ourselves. I can't help my family if I don't help me.

4. I believe that a lot of people have a set standard of mental illness. "It's something that can't ever go away. If you are mentally ill you need to be institutionalized. If you have a mental illness you're less of a person. I don't know how to interact with someone who says they have a mental illness. Etc..." In other words, there are stigmatizations with regards to illnesses. And yes, some may be true...to an extent, but overall you can't usually tell that someone is suffering with depression, anxiety, or other sicknesses unless they tell you. I've posted before about how mental illness is a real thing and needs to be treated like a real thing, but the people that have them are real people and need to be treated as such. They are not able to "just get over it," nor can they simply decide to "not have it [mental illnesses] anymore because it's not working for them," and they are not being lazy.

After speaking with this person, they still did not agree with me and you know what? That's okay. I know my worth and my strength from having a mental illness and I know that I do not need to dignify the stigmatization of having depression and anxiety. This person was floored that I am taking such a positive position on becoming well and insisted that because I'm doing so well I "obviously never had a mental illness in the first place." Ok. This person has their opinions and that's ok. At least now they understand my position a bit better.

I have depression but I am not depressed. It is not who I am. My illness does not define me.  

My Fight

 Ten years ago, when I was thirteen, I was officially diagnosed with depression and was put on anti-depressants but still didn't know anything about the illness. My family didn't believe in sicknesses of this sort and as I result I discontinued the medications before even a month was over. I felt stigmatized within my own familial unit and that led to being feeling left out in the outside world. Would I ever feel normal and stop wanting to hurt myself? I had no support from those that were supposed to really care about me and minimal support from others because they didn't know how to help. I had numerous people tell me to just get over it and move on.

Almost every day was a battle. I dragged myself no matter what I did and I couldn't shake the feeling of not being good enough. I didn't know at the time that depression is a real illness and needs to be treated just like a broken leg. How could I have a mental illness? I must just be lazy and unmotivated. I made myself push harder and harder and kept sinking into the black. It seemed I had no interests, pep, or love for life. My memory was shot and I would go days without sleep or speaking to anyone. My mind was a minefield of dangerous thoughts and that's where I spent most of my time. With the frightening ideas swarming my mind.

As I got older, my depression grew even more dense. I couldn't hold a job. I was sleeping for upwards of 18 hours a day, and when people did see me they were looking at merely the body of Yannie. I had no spirit. Finally, when I was eighteen years-old I met Michael and it seemed that for a while my depression had subsided. At least a little. I was going on dates with this amazing man and was able to talk to him for hours. We became married and I turned into a monster. I forced this dear man to conform to my ideas of how life had to be, even down to how he hung up his clothes. I then became pregnant with my gorgeous daughter and became an even worse monster. (Yay hormones!)

When Emily was born, I had postpartum depression before we left the hospital. Taking care of a new child, cleaning, and being a wife was too much for me. I would often make Michael do more than his fair share simply because I couldn't do much. I felt like I was a horrible person and Michael would have been better marrying someone else, although I didn't do anything about those feelings until May of 2012.

May of 2012. I had officially been diagnosed with depression for eight years. I knew I had depression and I told people that I was doing the best I could. (NOT!) I kept feeling worse and kept thinking that my daughter and husband would be better without me. I acted on these thoughts on the 20th of that month by attempting suicide by overdosing. I texted Michael's father and told him what I had done and both Michael and Carl found me and had an ambulance take me to the hospital. I didn't stay at the hospital. I came home and still didn't do anything for my depression. I think, at least a small part of me didn't want to get better. I liked the attention. Carl spent many hours the next couple weeks talking with me and at one point he told me that I was trying to do to my daughter what my father had done to me- leave them wondering what they did wrong, what they could have done better, blaming themselves for me leaving. That hit me. I swore that would be the very last suicide attempt I would ever have.

At the beginning of this year, I started slipping down that slope again and by April I agreed to be admitted to Provo Canyon Behavioral Hospital for a week. It was really hard for me to be away from my family so long, but it was good at the same time. I finally had become serious about getting healthy. I learned a lot while I was admitted and was able to start some medications that have been helping and I have been able to not abuse them. When it was time to be released I started feeling anxiety. I wanted, desperately, to go home but I was unsure of how I would handle myself. That is when it hit me that I needed to be serious about my recovery and had to take an active part in it. Nobody else can make me well and the medications are just tools to use for a good starting point.

When I came home it would have been easy for me to stop taking the medications and to let depression take over again, but I couldn't. I saw the love a lot of people have for me and decided to not give in. I did a Google search for depression groups that I could attend in Utah County, and I found several. I started attending these groups and found one that really hit home for me. Recovery International. This a group that studies the teachings of Dr. Abraham A. Low and teaches you how to apply his method to your life. Right away, I noticed a drastic difference in my behavior and attitude. I don't complain, I don't give in to my temper nearly as frequently, I'm able to shake off disturbances, even major ones, quickly, and many more. Michael, and others, have commented how great it is to have Yannie back. My interests are returning and I am feeling quite passionate about things again. (Including Recovery International. Seriously, you should check them out!)

Right now I am focusing on getting healthy and being a wife and mom, and you know what? I'm on a good path with that right now. I know that the maintenance of health is a life-long task and sometimes I'll want to quit putting the effort in, but I won't. I don't like having the symptoms of depression and the tears it places in my family. I will continue fighting for my health and will continue to explore myself. I am genuinely excited to be returning to school in the Spring of 2016. I am hoping to become a psychologist specializing in working with rape victims. It will be hard but I feel that with my experiences with not only rape, but with my own mental illness as well, that I will do a lot of good in this field. I am a capable lot and am able to do a lot of good in my life and help my family do well in theirs.

I have depression but I am not depressed. It is not who I am. My illness does not define me. 

Falling In Love

Dear Life, 

When I first met you I was a mess. Literally. I was screaming my lungs out and didn't look very cute. (Nothing like now!) I was unsure of myself and my surroundings and was terrified of what was to come, but you simply gave me your blessing and told me I had countless and endless opportunities laying in wait. I didn't believe you at the time.

Growing up you were still there whispering words of encouragement, words of living. When I was a little girl I started believing you more and was a strong independent toddler, but I still didn't love you. I didn't even like you. Let's be honest, I never even gave you a second thought. How unfair and ridiculous I was! You were the reason I woke up every morning and took that first breath and every one after. 

Becoming a teenager was difficult at best and seemingly impossible at worst. Again I was a mess, only not literally this time. I was in a dark and cruel place and continually tried to break up with you and end our relationship. You, being wiser than I am, never let me drop you. I resented you. I wanted you to leave me and never return. I hated your words of living and I wanted to silence you. I tried and tried to push you away, but you were persistent and stayed with me through thick and thin. I didn't understand you and why you were intent on torturing me. 

Only now do I know that you were not torturing me, you weren't giving up on me. You loved me.

It has taken me years to fully understand those implications, and I'm not sure that I fully appreciate them yet, but I am trying. I am working on my love for you and I am learning that I have loved you all along, even when I thought I didn't. You are just as important to me as my family and I am going to work on creating that bond with you. I know you have a lot to offer me, including the endless possibilities you suggested when we first met. I'm going to live and not let those unliving-living (you know the type) people convince me otherwise. I know you will be patient and not give up on me because you haven't yet, and I'm now going to do the same for you.

With Love, 

Yannie

A letter to myself

Dear Yannie,

It's been almost two months since we have talked and I noticed that you're still struggling a little bit on some things I told you last time, so I've decided to write to you again and again voice my thoughts on you and about you. Maybe you'll eventually believe it if I tell you enough.

You ARE beautiful. Forget for a moment how you think you look and listen to me. You have a deep-rooted beauty that goes far beyond just physical beauty (don't get me wrong, you're physically beautiful as well). You are kind, loving, and compassionate, all traits of being a beautiful person and because of this others are drawn to you. You have the ability to turn anyone's sour day around and make them smile. And speaking of smiling, your smile can light up a room before you step foot in said room.

You play an important role in other's lives. People know that they can turn to when having a hard time, or a good time, and tell you all about it. They know that if you offer your service or your ear, or anything, that you will follow through on it. You are reliable and trustworthy. I know that you have considered yourself to be a burden to those around and have considered suicide, but you would leave an enormous hole in people's lives and hearts if you were to hurt yourself in this way. A lot of people would be hurt- not just your family. There are those that look to you for encouragement. Where would they be if you left? You are both needed and wanted. Don't give up on yourself.

You are an example to others. You come from a horrible, hellish background but you survived. And you haven't just survived. You have broken those moulds and are not continuing to be your family. In many ways you are a pioneer to and from your family. You haven't just given up and you have sought out Christ. Even with your past, including not having a father, you trust in a Heavenly Father that you weren't allowed to know until you were fifteen. You did what you felt was right even though it went against your family's thoughts and beliefs. You are strong. I know sometimes you become frustrated when you are told that, but it is true. I think you get frustrated because if you are honest with yourself, you'd admit that it's true and things would be easier for you. Let yourself be strong and confident. You have my permission You deserve it (trust me, I would know).

I'm going to offer you some advice now and I really hope you heed it. First, don't let the past have anymore control over you. Move forward and keep moving forward without looking at the past. Those from your past are winning if you continue to believe what they told you and what they did to you. Leave them in your past but stay grateful for the experiences. They make you better able to help others that have gone, or are going, through something similar.

Second, don't be afraid to be yourself. You have a lot to offer the world and those in it including your children. Don't worry if people won't like you because of you being yourself. If someone doesn't like you, they don't like you. It's not the end of the world. Go on. Be yourself and love you.

Third, have the courage to make mistakes in your life. Mistakes are what people learn the most from and making mistakes helps Heavenly Father show you your weaknesses so that they may become your strengths. Everyone makes mistakes. Everyone.

Well Yannie, I believe it is time to let you go. I hope that this letter will help you when you are feeling down on yourself. You really are amazing and deserve the best from life. I do love you, even though you find that really hard to believe or listen to.

With Love,
Yannie

Colouring and Talking

Learn to dance in the rain

I have decided that I need to write about what has been happening with me the past little while- with my depression, my past, and the decisions that have been made. Please hang in there with me, I'm not sure how long this post will be or if it even makes sense but I think it's time to do some serious writing. 

At the beginning of this Spring semester I was feeling excited and hopeful (well, trying to feel excited and hopeful anyway), I had felt that I had finally found my spot with school. I had switched my major to Behavioral Science with an emphasis on Psychology. I felt, and still feel, that with my experiences and background that I could be of great use in this field. As much as I could, I enjoyed my classes this semester, until March. I'm not 100% sure of what switched. If I'm honest, I just don't think that I've ever given myself a chance to heal from the different abuse I endured or my many suicide attempts. I couldn't take the time. I had convinced myself that it wasn't worth putting the effort into learning about and working with my depression. (That was my mother speaking!) 

In March I decided that I would take a leave of absence from school to get myself healthy. Already that was a huge step. I grew up being force-fed the lies that depression isn't real and that I didn't need help outside of the family. The decision to take a leave of absence was a step in starting to break away and get better, although I didn't realize it fully at the time. Towards the end of March I started becoming quite suicidal again and this scared me and everyone around me. On March 30, I voluntarily checked myself into Mountain View Hospital in Payson, but I only stayed overnight. I convinced myself that I needed to be home not in the hospital, and I managed to convince the doctor to release me. This was one of the worst decisions I have ever made, but then again, what decisions are smart ones when you're in the throes of depression?

After I was released from Mountain View, I just kept getting worse. By April 7, I was practically an empty shell. Laura, Michael's cousin and a dear friend of mine, told me that my eyes and voice were dead. There was no spark in my eye and no giggle in my voice. Sort-of voluntarily (if I hadn't gone voluntarily, Michael, Laura, and others would have admitted me to a hospital anyway) I agreed to be admitted to Provo Canyon Behavioral Hospital. I was there a full week. It was hard for me being away from the kids and Michael for so long, but it had been good for me to go in. 

While I was in the hospital, they started me on a couple different medications. This is the first time I have agreed to medication. I knew that this was kind-of a last chance situation. I didn't want to hurt myself or my family by association. I needed to get better and gain new skills. 

At the hospital, our days consisted of groups and a lot of down time which was usually spent coloring, writing, reading, or visiting with other patients. I bonded very quickly with the other patients and we became each other's support while in we were admitted. We each knew the other's pains, at least mildly. 

Coming home from the hospital on the 14 of April was both rewarding and difficult. I immediately was back in the real world, and it seemed overwhelming from where I was standing, but I had a few more tools to work with it and a caring husband that hasn't ever given up on me. Not to mention all the wonderful people that have been placed in my life just to love me. (I still haven't gotten over that one yet! There's a ton of people that have been put in my life at just the right time thanks to a loving Heavenly Father that is greatly aware of my needs.)

When I first came home, it was still difficult for me to be able to get up and do things, but I decided to be proactive in my recovery. I searched for therapy groups to attend. I did research on my meds. I even started attending these groups-by myself and of my own will! Since I was released in April, I feel that I have made a lot of progress with help of the medications prescribed me. For example, I realized that many of my negative feelings (depression, sadness, anger, etc) were stemming from the feeling of being inadequate. Every day, at least once, I had heard my mother's voice telling me that I wasn't good enough or smart enough or blah blah blah blah. I realized that this had gone on for as long as I remembered, and I burned with resentment and anger. I am good enough and worth it, dang it! 

One morning, a couple weeks ago, I woke up feeling strong. Stronger than I ever have. I was able to be honest with my mother about my feelings. I stood up to Christine Joseph. I felt amazing. I felt like I could accomplish anything! That was the first day I had not heard her voice telling me I was inadequate and I haven't heard it since. I no longer burn with anger or resentment toward my mother, but I've learned that I don't need to be a doormat to myself, my symptoms, or to other people. 

As I have mentioned in another post, depression is not something that just goes away, but I'm working on working through my past and managing my mental illness. I have learned to be open about my experiences and will share them openly without embarrassment (usually...sometimes I've done embarrassing things like falling down a mountain, but that's a story for another time). I want you to know that if depression, or other mental illnesses, shadow your life there is a light and there are people that understand and care. Please do not give up hope.

Sorry about the bad word, but this made me smile. :)

                                                   

Asher's Birth Story

A journal entry from the morning of June 28, 2013 read- Five days after my estimated due date. I'm starting to question whether something is wrong with me. With my body. I was so sure I would deliver Asher on his due date and here it is five days past! I know it's just an estimate, but I'm going insane! He's getting big and I'm becoming more uncomfortable. I'll ask Michael for a blessing tonight, and maybe that'll get things going. 

Yeah, I guess you could say I was starting to go crazy! I had had a prenatal appointment the day before this and I was dilated to about a 3 and he was in position to go, but NOTHING was happening. Ugh. So we set an appointment for Monday July 1 and would see what the weekend would entail. I was feeling discouraged. Highly discouraged.

On Friday the 28, I did ask Michael for that blessing and we ended up talking for about two hours while Emily played in her room. We finished at around 8/8:15 pm and Emily was crying, so I went in to comfort her. I sat on the floor in her room and just held her for a minute. I had sent her to go ask Michael something and went to stand up. It took a little longer than usual to stand, and when I finally did, I felt warm liquid run down my legs. At first I thought I peed myself, it wouldn't have been the first time, but then I realized that I had never had the urge to pee. Michael came to check on me and I looked at him kind of shocked then raced into the shower. Poor Michael was a little confused at my response, until he saw my wet bottoms. "Did your water just break? Really?" No honey, I was carrying a jar of pickle juice with me and spilled it. Yes, my water broke.

I raced into the shower to rinse off and after I thought I could just put a pad on, I mean after all, there couldn't be THAT much fluid, right? Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. I tried just putting a pad on and within two-three minutes I had to change it. So, I was silly and put another pad on. Two minutes passed and I was dripping fluid down my leg, so I went to go rinse off again. Only...there was a laundry basket in the way. So I did what any women in labor would do, I tried to jump over the laundry basket into the bathtub. Yeah, it ended about as badly as it sounds. Combine that with a giggly Yannie and a kind of worried Michael- it made for a comedy skit, that's for sure. After I had showered for the second time, I gave in and just put an adult diaper on. (YUCK!) Somewhere amongst all this chaos, we managed to text Heather (my mid-wife), and Laura (Michael's cousin who was coming down from Salt Lake to help) that my water had broken. Michael even was able to call his mom and let her know, as she was going to watch Emily for us.

Great! Something is happening. Maybe? I still hadn't really had any contractions by the time Laura got here about an hour after texting her and I was antsy. And hyper. Very hyper. When Laura got here, she immediately told me she had something for me in her car which immediately piqued my interest, so she went out and got what it was. It was a blanket that Michael's grandma had made before she passed away last year. Laura's mom felt that it was for Asher. Cue the tears. We packed it in the bag to bring with us to the birth center.

After Laura was here, I tried to settle down for a bit by watching a movie with Laura and Michael. Guess what didn't work... I was way too riled and hyper and hungry. I NEEDED food. About eleven-ish Michael laid down to take a nap and told me to wake him up when I needed him. I still hadn't had any real contractions, so Laura and I hit the pavement. We walked around the block three (?) times and came back to the apartment. Laura laid down to get some sleep and I sat on the couch trying to lose myself in a book. Before too long, I too fell asleep, but it wasn't very restful. I started having contractions. YES!!!

Now it's Saturday, June 29 at 4 in the morning and the contractions are getting closer. This is good. About 5:30 I woke Michael up and told him that maybe we should head to the birth center, as the contractions were coming about every four minutes. So, we woke Laura up, put the bags in the car, called Michael's mom and had her come over and headed to the center. Laura decided to get some bagels before heading to the birth center, so Michael and I got there a few minutes before her. Contractions had stopped, so Michael and I walked the yard for a bit.

When we went back inside, Laura was there so we had bagels after Heather checked me. I was already at a five! BOO YA! Heck, that first half was easy. I was so hoping the second half would be too. Well, contractions weren't kicking back in, so I was constantly moving- on the birth ball, walking around, walking outside, sitting and playing in the birth tub, laughing at the jokes being told on my comedy station, walking some more, taking some natural supplement every 20 minutes to help labor, and you know what? STILL NOTHING!! How ridiculously frustrating.

Around noon, Heather decided to send me home and let me labor at home for a bit. She gave me some tinctures, some more natural stuff, even some caster oil. All in hopes of progressing labor. So, now we're back at my apartment and waiting. Michael and Laura convince me that I should take a nap. That felt so good to get some sleep in! Michael awoke me a couple hours later and we ate some pancakes and then it was back to moving around. (The Caster Oil didn't even give me an upset stomach!) And moving. And moving. Around 5:30 pm, Heather asked if we could be back at the birth center around six. Yup. Right before we headed back, I got a pretty serious craving for a hamburger and fries from Wendy's, so Laura went over and got me some. Wendy's had never tasted so good, in the history of ever.

The drive back to the birth center was uneventful. No contractions. Boo! As soon as we were back, we all decided to hit me with EVERYTHING! Tinctures, herbs, nipple stimulation, pressure points, moving around, everything that we could possibly try, we tried. It was kind of intense, but I started having contractions. Laura was timing them, but was not allowed to tell me the times, because it would drive me crazy. After a couple hours, I started going insane with the pump (for nipple stimulation). I felt it wasn't really helping. It was also during this time that I had Michael put a calming station on Pandora and we took the clock down, so I really had no sense of time. The clock was making me anxious.

A few hours later, I asked if I could get a little nap in, and the request was readily okayed. I got woken up from the nap with a contraction, and Michael wasn't there! After the contraction passed, I asked Laura where Michael was and she told me he was talking with Heather and her team. My heart sank. I knew they were talking about the possibility of having to transfer me to the hospital.

Michael came back in and told me my options. 1) Stay birthing at the birth center until it becomes an emergency to transfer, 2) Transfer immediately, and the third option wasn't an option for any of us. Teresa and Heather were discussing how pitocin could help, but Teresa didn't have her license yet and we didn't want to transfer me just for pitocin. So, this wasn't an option for us. Period.

After Michael kind of gave me the brief run-down, Heather came in to talk to me and explain the options in detail. I was torn. I didn't want to go to the hospital, but I could understand their concern. My water had been broken for a long time and nothing was really happening. I couldn't make a decision, so I asked if I could have a priesthood blessing before we decided, so Michael called his dad to help. He was more than happy to help. (I later found out we called him at around 2 am Sunday morning!) Right before Carl (Michael's dad) got to the center, there was a sudden freak rainstorm. My power weather! It was wonderful! It was still storming while I received the blessing. The blessing left both Michael and I confused about what we should do. There were some parts that we interpreted to mean go to the hospital, and others to mean stay at the birth center, but I received the prompting that either way would work, I just needed to have faith.

So. Where did that leave us? Well, we decided that because the hospital has a protocol that I would need two doses of antibiotics because of my water being broke for so long, that we would do the first dose and wait out the four hours at the birth center seeing if I progressed. If it turned out that I progressed enough, I would be able to stay at the birth center. I had to start having regular, hard contractions. No pressure.

Not too long after the blessing and after Carl left, contractions hit. And hit. And hit. I could take a breath here and there, and Michael was amazing and right there with me. At some point, he had taken off his shirt so we could have lots of skin-on-skin contact (I had long given up on clothes at this point. They were just a nuisance!) which helped release the needed oxytocin. Michael never gave up on me, and was a great labor coach. Finally, at one point I asked if I could have a shower. The contractions were getting more intense, and I thought I nice warm shower would help.

Karen (one of Heather's students), Michael, and Laura all helped me up the stairs (yes, the shower was UP the dang stairs!) and Michael stayed with while I was showering. The contractions were coming a lot harder, faster, and were starting to last longer. The shower did help-for a bit. Then all of a sudden, it wasn't. I got out of the shower and told Michael that I needed something, but I didn't know what. I just needed something.

Michael told me that I needed to get back downstairs. I went down one stair and that's when transition and exhaustion hit. I got the most painful contraction at the top of the stairs and I was so tired that I couldn't walk down. I had to sit and kind of scoot down. But it gets better. I couldn't hold me head up anymore, so Michael was in front of me guiding me down and Karen was behind me letting me rest my head on her and offering words of encouragement. Michael had made a rule that once I got down three stairs, I could take a thirty second break. I never made it to three stairs. This is how it went- go down one stair, have a contraction, take a ten second break, go down one stair, have a contraction, have a ten second break. At one point during this process, I told Michael to just let me die. That we could borrow his dad's shotgun and a few bullets and just be done with it. He just kind of laughed.

We were almost to the bottom of the stairs when I got a contraction so power, that I could no longer sit. I had to stand. As soon as I stood, I started pushing. I told Michael that I didn't want to push right then, I wanted to rest. I needed to rest. But the contractions were coming frequently and I couldn't fight that urge. Michael told me that we needed to get me on the bed, then I could lay down. I made it to the bed, and just kind of flopped down on my left side. Suddenly, I felt different. My head was a little clearer, and I was super focused. At one point, Michael was trying to help me staying focused by keeping time by tapping on my hip, and it seriously annoyed me. I swatted his hand away. He laughed and made the statement that I was back.

So, now I'm laying on my side pushing. Michael is behind me, Laura is at my head holding my hands, and my foot is propped up on Karen's shoulder to aid in the pushing, and Michael tells me "Okay, after this contraction I want you to go back on the birth stool." NO FREAKIN' WAY! After he made that statement, the contraction didn't stop. :) At some point, Naomi (another student) came in and replaced Karen, only to have to call everyone back in about five minutes later. Why? Because Asher was crowning. All I really knew at that point, was that the energy in the room had changed and every nerve in my body was super focused on pushing this baby out. My body was so focused that at one point I had to release the energy by proclaiming "Get him out!" It wasn't directed at anyone, just a statement that my body had to make. Then I heard Heather yelling at me to stop pushing for just a second, and my mind completely rebelled. How was I supposed to stop?

But I did manage to stop for a second, and she was able to find his heartbeat, (Asher's heartbeat stayed at a consistent 150 during the entire labor. It was like he wasn't even phased by this whole experience!) and I was given the green light to continue pushing. I did and I felt his head come out and was told to stop pushing again because the cord was wrapped around his neck. Heather just popped the cord right off, it wasn't even a big deal. I was already feeling euphoric, and Asher wasn't even properly born yet! One more push, and out came his body. Immediately he was placed on my stomach. I was beyond cloud nine. Here was my son, my handsome son, and he was just looking at me like "Hi mommy! That was quite the adventure, huh?" Not once did he cry. While I was staring and cooing at Asher, I was checked for tears-none, baby!-and pushed for the placenta to come out, but it wasn't. After a few minutes, Heather told me that she had to reach in and pull it out. I just stayed looking at my handsome son, and before I knew it the placenta was delivered and I could nurse Asher. He immediately latched and was (still is, believe me!) a fantastic nurser. After the placenta was delivered, Heather made the comment that the placenta was huge, "like I've only seen a placenta this big with twins!" Um, thank you?

After Asher was born, Michael crashed and I asked if I could get the IV out (remember the antibiotics?), but was told that Heather was concerned about me collapsing so they said that I had to walk to bathroom and actually go to bathroom, before they would take it out. Okay, that's fair. I handed Asher to Laura and Naomi walked with me to the restroom, and I was able to pee. Yay, no bruised bladder!! Then Naomi and Karen got me cleaned up, and we went back to room. Teresa took my IV out, and we all took a much needed nap!

Asher was born at 6:02 am Sunday, June 30, and it was about 7 that we all fell went to sleep. We woke up about noon, I went to the bathroom again, got some food, fed Asher, and by that point I was dying to know weight and everything. Karen and Naomi came in, clamped Asher's umbilical cord and Michael got to cut it! They weighed him-- 9 LBS 1 OZ, and measured him and during all this, he still refused to cry. He had no need to cry, and I was smitten. Positively smitten.

We went home not too long after he was weighed and measured and Michael's parents brought Emily home a short time later. She immediately wanted to hold her little brother, and I couldn't stop smiling. 34 hours of labor, but I would do it all again for Asher.

Post-partum from Asher's  birth was much easier than Emily's, and I think there were several huge contributors to that- Michael was able to help out a lot more, he was never taken from me, I was able to experience all of it- including the urge to push, I felt safe, and above all, I was able to form that bond with him. I didn't have anyone telling me I was nursing incorrectly or waking me up every two hours to feed him. I was left to parent in the way I felt best. I loved delivering naturally and I love my little boy!