Doubt

There is this funny part of adult life that smacks us on the side of the head. It is called: reality check. I feel lately I've received so many reality checks, in so short of a time period, that I can hardly keep up. The result? Doubt has been creeping into my mind. The reality that things, people, memories, are not what they seem to be is disturbingly unsettling. My emotional response to these "checks" is a natural defensiveness, followed by deep sadness, followed by a reaction of strength.

It has come to my attention that people I viewed as leaders and inspiration are, simply, neither of those things. In addition, I have discovered that not only are these people lacking leadership and inspirational codes of conduct, they are in fact willing to alienate me and disregard my admiration for them. Nothing inspires distaste in an admirer quite like mockery. The thing is, I don't really give away my admiration and loyalty easily. I pick individuals that show me qualities that I truly love. I observe them for quite some time. And then, loyalty is secured. Admiration is secured. So when I come to realize that these people do not in turn have warm thoughts about me, regardless of their seemingly loving actions, and that beyond my own feelings they are not kind or innovative with others people's feelings...Well, all hell breaks loose in my heart. My disappointment is palpable.

Of course this transition also shifts my own perception of my "self". These reality checks, especially regarding the people around me, cause me to question how these individuals see me. After all, they are truly seeing me in a way I had not realized if they are comfortable with harming me, the loyal admirer. Which of course causes doubt to settle over me about my powers of perception. Is it me? Or is it them? Were they always inconsiderate, two-faced, hurtful bastards? Or did I just miss that memo because I felt like I was in their good graces. The answers to these questions don't really matter. Either way the truth has surfaced. Reality has smacked me in the face.

This situation has also been apparent in relationships over the past few months: shifting perceptions of those whose company I once enjoyed have turned my daily interactions around. And this happening happens to cause another doubt: Is there a problem with my choices in people I choose to interact with? After all, people I looked up to have now been found charlatans. And to top that off, people I consider friends have now turned into names that cause me to cringe when I read them on my incoming call screen. Once again, is it me? Or is it them? The common denominator in these experiences is, after all, me. But correlation is not causation. If it is me, at least I am realizing a pattern, maybe this will teach me how to move forward without such deep disappointments in my friends and colleagues.

I would like to close with my thoughts on "presumption". Throughout my recent "reality checks" with friends and colleagues, I have noticed the unsettling tendency toward presumptions. Presumptions about why people are acting in a way. Presumptions of why people spoke in a certain manner. Presumptions, equal with judgements, seem to be a plague. I listened to a colleague (whom, I will remark, does not consider me a colleague because she views her station as superior) discuss the haste she has noticed in her colleagues movement toward attaining further certifications and education. She remarked that this haste is a quality not really desired in our profession, that obviously these colleagues were embarking on these endeavors for "all the wrong reasons". The amount of presumptions in that statement are obscenely obvious. Firstly, who are you to judge the actions of another because they have been done in a pace different from your own? Secondly, do actions really reflect intentions? I repeat; DO ACTIONS REALLY REFLECT INTENTIONS? And, based on the previous question, is it possible that her interpretation of these actions and intentions were, *gasp!* interpreted wrong? You see, basing your thoughts on others actions and intentions relies on the idea that the observer happens to be interpreting these actions correctly. Now that, my friends, is an awful lot of pompous trust in ones own interpretive skills. I personally do not feel comfortable puffing myself up quite so large.

When No One Takes You Seriously

I've heard my generation labeled many things. Mostly negative. It always surprises me to hear these labels slapped on, so judgmental, so uncaring. As if the generations criticizing my own are not partially responsible for how I've turned out. As if they have no liability, as if they're not my parents and grandparents. I've been told we are selfish. Lazy. We want handouts. We're glued to the boob tube, want everything for free. I've reflected, "Do they know the 20 something's I know?!"

But I'm not spending my time blaming others, contrary to how I've been judged. Rather, I'm writing my perspective. My experiences. I'm at the place in life where I look myself in the mirror and say, "What do you WANT to do? What impact do you want to make?" Because believe it or not, we do that, my lazy selfish generation. We want to make an IMPACT. We no longer live in the world of studying one thing for life and hoping it pays our bills. I read recently that the average adult has around 11 jobs before settling into their official career. That's right, jacks of all trades. We have the ability to study thousands of ideas within a small time frame, technology has placed the world at our finger tips. This ability leads my generation toward revolution. Why? Because we can learn, conceptualize, and challenge any topic within the space of an hour. We can push beyond the education given to our critical parents. We can learn quickly and challenge thoroughly not because we are smarter but because information is free and hastily accessed.

I'm not lazy, apathetic, or selfish. In fact my dreams involve the ultimate goal of serving other human beings and our planet. I've seen these same desires rise in my peers' goals. Nearly every 20 something I know has big dreams, revolutionary dreams. And nearly every 20 something I know has some elder generational person telling them they can't do it. I've watched a dear friend tell his mother of his dream to become a successful doctor and to retire serving those who normally receive no medical care. She laughed. In his face.

I once told a baby boomer woman of my dreams, my big dreams. She told me that when I had children I'd forget about all of those "silly" dreams and focus on the day to day.

See the problem with not being taken seriously lies in the fact that those who do not believe in your dreams are the self same people telling you you're a lazy, selfish slob. They don't hear you. And they certainly don't believe in you. And to be told in one breath that you're the generation that will ruin this world, and in another breath being laughed at for dreaming of saving this world... Well that is what you call dammed if you do and dammed if you don't. The federations that laugh at our big dreams are the generations that put us down to begin with. They're also the generations that helped raise us. We're not biting the hand that feeds; we are being slapped across the face by the hands that fed us.

I discussed this writing project with a friend today. She mentioned that the problem between our generation and the older generations lie in what's important to us. She said our elders don't listen to our hopes because our ideas are conflicting or unimportant with their own. I think she's right. As our generation moves toward marriage equality, we are leaving behind a generation that ignored the inequitable treatment of the LGBT community. As we worry about stopping global environmental catastrophe, we're leaving behind generations of people who were unaware or indignant to these concerns. We're moving forward. They're staying the same. We're cleaning up messes they made. And yet they refuse to value our ideas or believe in our causes.

I have no doubt I'm not the first to feel twinged with the sadness of realizing generational gap. I can recall some of my favorite artists, from various eras, remarking similarly. What is difficult for me is that we've not moved past such small thinking. I look at my son and know he'll do, be, and create far beyond me. And I honor that. I hope he will. I know this world depends on each generation becoming better than the last, our species most certainly does. I am willing to cherish the moment my son comes through my door, beaming with the smallest yet most powerful concept of them all: an idea.

Birth Story

Lincoln Comrade Pierce Martinez- Birth Story

I have found there are two types of story-telling women when it comes to birth stories. There are the women who will tell you that they thought they were going to explode into a million pieces and die. And there are those women who make giving birth sound like a mystical experience in which they became a goddess and fairies danced around them in glowing candlelight. I am neither of these women.

I went into birth thinking that my experience would be more like the latter: I was to be one with nature, a goddess of birth. Don't get me wrong, I was very level-headed about my expectations, I was as educated as a first time “birther” could possibly be and I knew it would be work. And it was just that: work. Hard, hard work. It was beautiful, it was heaven on earth, but not until the extremely hard work was over.

I gave birth to my son Lincoln Comrade Pierce, 7lbs 4oz 21 inches long, on July 22, 2012 at 11:12 in the morning. This is our story.

Thursday July 19^th rolled around and I was officially 41 weeks and one day. That's right...overdue. And let's just say that I felt like all full term pregnant women. Enough said. I was getting really anxious. I had been having contractions, very light and inconsistent contractions, for a couple weeks. These were enough to make me have to notice them but not much else. This made me really nervous, crazy things were flying through my brain. “What if I don't naturally go into labor?” Stacie (my Midwife), Laura, and Brandice (my Midwife Assistants) took my silliness in stride. They reassured me as much as they could but there is little consoling a 10 month pregnant woman in the middle of July in Tennessee! As this Thursday rolled around Stacie asked me and Nick if we would like to head down to The Farm. (If you don't know what The Farm is by now...you are way out of the loop!) I was shocked that Stacie felt I was close enough to delivering to already come to The Farm, but trusting my midwife, we dropped the dog off, packed our bags and headed down.

The Farm is a really magical place. I think it is important to note this here. The Farm is a place where thousands of women have birthed their babies. It is the historical mecca of midwifery in the United States. It has been featured in magazines, documentaries, etc. Just being on The Farm makes your heart light. Good vibes permeate the place. There is really something special about it. Iconic Ina May Gaskin was the woman to start the tradition of midwifery on The Farm and others followed suit. Including my incredible midwife Stacie Hunt, my second midwife Pamela Hunt (one of the “originals”), and my midwife assistants Brandice and Laura. Enough about this, if you don't know about The Farm you really ought to do your research, and heck go visit and feel it for yourself!

We arrived at our cute little cabin on Thursday evening. I was having the same inconsistent, light contractions. Stacie checked me and told me my cervix was “melty” I believe was the word. She was very encouraging. Nick and I became super excited. But regardless of my excitement I had my doubts. I didn't yet have the confidence in my body that I needed. Friday we swam and walked, and walked, and walked. That evening I sat up having stronger contractions. Nonetheless the contractions waned and back to bed I went. At this point I was becoming discouraged.

Saturday morning we woke up feeling sore from all the walking we had done the previous day. I was feeling really depressed. All sorts of fears were surfacing. “I'm not going to go into labor” “I'm going to have to go to the hospital and be induced” “I only have a dog sitter for one week, and we are blowing that week on this” etc. Nick could see in my face how discouraged I was becoming. He suggested we just take it easy for the day. Stacie agreed and encouraged us to relax. I spent the day hanging with Nick, but all the nagging doubts were sitting in the back of my mind. At one point Nick said something that hit me right to the core. He told me that I had not decided to go into labor, and therefore I wouldn't. He told me I had to make the decision that this was “it” and then it would happen. I was slightly hurt he was so straightforward with me, but he was right.

Pamela came by in the evening, and by then I felt like I was going to have a breakdown. I don't know for sure, but I'm fairly certain Pamela could see the stress in my face. She sat me down and told me to forget I was pregnant for just one night. She instructed Nick to cook me a nice dinner, make me take a long hot bath, and cuddle. There is something really uplifting about that woman. She made me feel like I could go on, even just for one more night. Nick was wonderful. He made me fettuccine alfredo, we took a long bath together in the cabin's huge tub, and we really enjoyed one another. For a few hours I really did forget I was pregnant. For a few hours we were just a young couple having a luxurious vacation in a quaint cabin. It was just what I needed. We wound down from our nice evening together around 11 pm. I began thinking about what Nick had said about me making up my mind that this was “it”. I decided I should take his advice. I decided then and there that I was not leaving that cabin until our son was born.

About the same time Nick joked that we should go drive the Campground road. Pamela's son had told us earlier that week that Pamela had gone into labor with one of her babies while riding on a bumpy road in a golf cart. Nick seemed to like the idea. We hopped into the car and drove through The Farm in the pitch black of night. We could see tons of stars, crickets were out, we were singing and laughing. We drove the Campground road twice. Nick didn't take it easy on me, or the car. And lo and behold every time we would hit a bump my contractions would roll in stronger. They were actually even painful after those bumps. After two rounds of driving the road I told him I was done! Enough of this! So we drove back to the cabin. We were both in such great spirits. About 12:30 am we laid down to go to sleep. I felt much better. I remember thinking before we drifted off that I was truly lucky to have such a great man in my life. And I remember thinking that I didn't mind waiting as long as necessary for my son to decide to show his sweet face.

And I didn't have to wait much longer. At 1:18am I snapped awake to a strong, fairly painful cramp. But it wasn't a cramp, it was a contraction. I hadn't felt a contraction that strong before. It made me have to go to the bathroom. So I walked, ahem waddled, to the bathroom. For the next two hours I had contractions, stronger than ever before but not very consistent. I went through them by walking around the living room of the cabin, moving around on a yoga ball and finding every which way possible to get comfortable. I tried to sleep in between them. Sleeping in between the contractions was not very feasible. But I did try! Pretty quickly I realized that walking through contractions was not benefiting me. I drew a bath, lit some candles and got in. Being on my back was excruciating, so I got comfortable on my hands and knees.

Around 3 am I was in pain, my contractions were about 8-10 minutes apart. I decided I couldn't go on much longer without my partner. At this point I still had no idea if this was real labor. I assumed this was just continuing podromal labor in a really strong bout. I woke Nickolas up and asked if he could come and rub my back and help me time contractions. I got out of the bath and remained on my hands and knees on the bathroom floor. I put the yoga ball beneath my chest to help alleviate some of my weight from off of my limbs. We turned on my birthing music compilation which I had made the week before. Nick rubbed, pushed, and tickled per my demands. Fairly quickly I entered “labor-land”. I completely forgot that Nick was there helping me. He was a saint for rubbing my back for nearly 3 hours straight without me speaking a word to him, other than to occasionally ask how close my contractions were and for how long they were lasting. Through all of that time I still kept thinking, “just podromal labor, just moving the baby down. I don't want to call and wake the midwives in the dead of night for a false alarm.”

Once, after a long period of silence, I asked Nick how long my contractions were and how far apart. He responded, about 3-5 minutes apart lasting 1-3 minutes. As soon as he said those numbers it hit me, this is real labor! Holy crap! I was definitely experiencing pain with each contraction, a pain I had never felt before. I asked what time it was. He told me that it was nearly 6 am. I told him to quickly go wake Pamela next door. He disappeared. At that point I remember thinking, “if this isn't real labor, forget it, we can roll me into a hospital and I'll have a C-section because I can't go through this again, especially if real labor is stronger than this!” I continued to work through each contraction; rolling around on my hands and knees. Rocking my pelvis to work through the contractions. The next hour or so were a blur of working through contractions, breathing with all my physical control. I think Pamela was in the cabin through this hour, but I can't be sure, I was in my own world.

Then, Stacie, Laura and Brandice popped up. I believe it was around 7:30. Stacie came into the bathroom and put me back in the bath, which was a welcome relief from being on the floor with all of my weight. She checked my dilation. Before she told me where I was I thought, “I've got to be at least an 8!” She told me I was at a 6. I thought I was going to cry. She reassured me that from 6 to 10 would be quick. I think she could have told me the moon was purple and I was tripping acid and I would have believed her! I was in such a different world that nothing on this Earth seemed to matter. My mind was focused on one goal: getting through my labor, getting my baby out. I was on an entirely different plane. Stacie also told me she was going to have Nick make me something to eat and bring me a drink. She then explained that Nick was going to take a break from helping me. I let her tell me what was going to happen, I really was not in a mindset to make any decisions. I was already making as many decisions as my mind could handle in that moment to moment experience. And the decisions I was making were: stay positive, just get through this contraction, stay loose, go with how your body feels. Before going into labor I promised myself I would work extremely hard to never say, “I can't”. That was very important to me and I had to continuously keep myself working through each moment positively to avoid saying it.

So after being told I was at a 6 I thought to myself, “just take it one at a time. I've already been doing this for all of this time, so I know I can keep doing it.” And I did. Each contraction I told myself, “I just did this. I can do this again.” Stacie left me in the bathroom alone. I knelt on my hands and knees in the bath water rocking my back and pelvis through the contractions, breathing strong athletic breaths. A few times I considered calling out for Nickolas. I didn't understand why they left me in there all alone. I really wanted him to come back and help me. But I was far too focused on what I must do. My wanting Nick back was just a faint desire. I didn't really have room to process it. I was processing each moment. I'm not sure how long passed. Even writing this it is hard for me to recall anything about those last couple of hours other than: the water, the music, my groans, my inner-self talking me through each second of every minute, my breathing. But even all of that was really just an overall aura. What I really felt was a deep inner connection to the animal that I am. I really was an animal in the very primal sense of the word. Having studied animals I have learned that they only have room for one emotion at a time. Hunger. Pain. Aggression. Joy. At that time I was single track minded as an animal is. My only thought was to make it through this contraction.

Looking back at it I know that I was connected to something much stronger than who I am on a daily basis. Somewhere amidst this Stacie checked me again. I was at an 8. I was becoming very vocal. I know now that I was approaching my own “transition”. She then said something to me that made those last contractions more bearable. She told me to, “think of each contraction like a wave.” I had to ride to the peak of each wave. I couldn't go around it. I couldn't go under it. I had to go through it. And every time I was facing a contraction I would imagine myself climbing a wave, hitting the brink and relishing in the decline. It was such a perfect metaphor. At some point I was ushered out of the bathroom and into the living room. The midwives sat me on a birthing stool. Nick was behind me helping my back and bearing some of my weight. I would sit up and groan through a contraction and practically collapse back onto Nickolas on the breaks. Stacie instructed me that I had a lip of cervix to get through and then I would be ready to push.

I remember when she told me I was approaching pushing I couldn't believe it! I had actually made it to pushing! I rode out a few more contractions as my cervix subsided. Once the cervix was gone Stacie instructed me to push whenever I felt the urge. I hadn't told her, but I had definitely been having the urge for a while, I was just waiting for her go ahead. But when she actually told me that I could...I suddenly felt a sinking feeling. Did I have the energy I needed to push my baby out? A big wave of doubt really smacked me at that moment. I pushed through a group of contractions. I was feeling pretty tired. Pretty defeated. I didn't say anything negative to myself, but I really felt like I was crashing. I was doing my very best. It wasn't enough.

I remember looking up at Stacie, who was sitting in front of me, with a face that must have been sheer pleading. I didn't say anything, but I know my face must have looked like I was pleading for her to help me in some way. And she did. They all did. Stacie, Pamela, Laura, Brandice, and Nick were all seated around me. It was like a big circle of energy. As I looked to Stacie for help she looked me straight in the eye. I don't know what it was about her look, but it filled me with a wave of hope. I looked at Pamela, Laura, and Brandice and felt their positive assurances through their eyes as well. Nick's hands on my back were sending me strong energy. Then Stacie told me to reach down and feel my baby's head. I could not believe how close he was! I could feel his hair. I felt like I could cry all over again, but this time a happy cry! That was it. Those gazes and that little head were all I needed to push again. And again. I'll be honest: I yelled. I mean really yelled. Nick told me some time afterward that I sounded like a bear, growling with all of my might. That's probably a better description than “yelled”. I knew I could get him out. I HAD to get him out. I kept thinking, “I want him OUT! Now!” I heard Laura tell me I was doing a good job. Brandice told me how close I was. Pamela kept telling me I looked beautiful. Her saying I looked beautiful really encouraged me. I wasn't really concerned about how I looked at that moment (after all I was stark naked and 10 months pregnant!) but hearing that still made a difference.

After these solid pushes Stacie told me she needed me to get onto the futon (which had been laid flat and prepped) for these final pushes. Let me tell you, walking two feet with a head crowning is NOT fun. I got up onto the futon, with a lot of assistance, and onto my hands and knees again. Nick sat beside me. I didn't want him anywhere but next to me. I gave a few more pushes. In my head all I could think was how badly I wanted this over! I wanted my son out! I felt calm and brave, but that all changed pretty quickly. Throughout the pushing Stacie had been telling me how pink and healthy Lincoln's head looked. This was greatly reassuring for me. But suddenly in my mind I had a voice tell me that I needed to get Lincoln out on the next push. I really do not know where that voice came from. No one in the room had said anything concerning to me. But clear as day a voice said to me, “On the next push you must get him out. This is it.” There was no arguing, this voice left no room for misunderstanding. Without questioning, when I felt the contraction rise, I bore down with all of my might. There was a burning, and what felt like a pop. And out he came! Once I got that head out his little body came rushing out onto the bed. He felt like a giant barrel of worms coming out of me! (Gross, maybe, but that is how it felt!)The instant I knew he was out I was high as a kite. I later told Nick that I honestly believe I could have immediately stood up and ran a mile at that moment. My adrenaline and other hormones were sky high. I think Pamela told me to take it easy. Haha.

Once Lincoln came out I heard Stacie say, “I need to clamp this cord, NOW.” I then heard the midwives rushing around. This really scared me and snapped me into reality. I turned around to see them holding Lincoln, cord already cut. He had his eyes open but was pale yellow and not really breathing. He looked like the color of heavy cream. I took him in my arms and started calling him by name. He wasn't really responding and I started really panicking. I kept talking to him, telling him where he was and how happy we were to see him. I told him how beautiful he was and how long I'd been waiting for him. Finally he let out a weak little cry. I think we all let out giggles of relief. Funny thing, his cries now still sound like that first one. It was his voice right from the very beginning.

I read a lot of birth stories that talked about how the parents felt like their baby was an old soul. Lincoln didn't feel like that to me. He felt like a brand new life, just sprung from the universe. A perfect combination of stardust, soil, spring water and light. Something immaculate. He was beautiful. I took everything in; his eyes, cry, hair, nose, knees. All of it. I made this. Nick made this. He was perfect. He IS perfect. One thing the birth stories did get right; I did know him. Right from that first moment. I've always known him. Somewhere before we were here on this Earth, we were together, and we will be together when this life ends. He sprang from my life force, and yet has a force all his own. Someday a beautiful child will spring from his force and only then will he know how deep a love I have for him.

I handed Lincoln to Nickolas and let them get warm and cuddle skin on skin. It was very important to me that Nick get to have immediate bonding with Lincoln. I love Nick so much, who better than to welcome my son into the world? I delivered my placenta. Cannot believe that thing fit in me! It was a great looking organ. So red and strong. I am proud to have made it too. Stacie told me I had torn a bit and she stitched me up. While being stitched I just kept looking at Link and Nick. Nickolas looked like he was in heaven. He was. I've never seen the look on Nick's face that he had at that moment. Never before that moment and never since. It was pure unadulterated love. When Nick looked me in the eyes for the first time after I gave birth I also saw his love for me. He had a glowing pride for me in his eyes. I think he was impressed!

Stacie started telling me what had happened that prevented them from delayed cord clamping (which I had wanted). She told me Lincoln's head was crowning well, looking nice and pink. Then suddenly it started turning whiter and whiter. I never told her about the voice that told me I had to get him out. She told me about his color change on her own without knowing anything about the voice that guided me. Isn't it incredible how God and the universe take care of us? Even though I didn't know something was wrong with Link, I was taken care of and so was Lincoln. Stacie also told me that once he was out they realized why he was turning white. He was wrapped 3-4 times in his cord from head to toe very tightly. She couldn't believe the cord was long enough to go up and down and around his body like that. It is her theory that he became tangled in it when he was very tiny, and it grew with him through the months. His umbilical cord was insanely long. Also one part of the cord was pinched shut. It likely pinched shut up against some part of my bones and that is why Lincoln started turning white. I'm very grateful to have had a guiding voice, wise midwives, and the strength to listen to them both. I'm proud that I never uttered, “I can't.”

As soon as Lincoln was born I was in reverie. Nothing compares to that experience. It was not pixie dust and flowers in my hair. But it was beautiful. The grim reaper was not standing at my side. But it was hard hard work. I wasn't alone but there were times I knew I had to do it on my own. I know now why Stacie left me alone in the bathroom as I approached transition. I had to gather my own strength. I could not rely on anyone to get me through this. The strength had to come from within my own heart, my own soul. I had to birth from within. There was nothing about birth that was easy, but ease would not have done justice to the strength I gained. I had to work, I had to be calm, I had to let go. I had to be so much stronger than I ever thought I could be. And then, for all of that work, I received a return worth ten times the pain and work I did. I would do it a million times over, if I had to, to get my son here. In reality I am trying to tell you what this experience was like, but I cannot truly express it. It is unfathomable. There are not words to truly convey what birthing and seeing my son for the first time felt like.

Each member of my birthing team made such a difference. Each of their personalities subtly taught me during birth. It wasn't anything they said, just who they are. Stacie guided me through, reminded me to be strong. Pamela helped me remember all of the women before me: they did this, and they had faith that I could do it. Laura helped me to stay calm, to remain in touch with my inner feminine soul. Brandice kept me positive, helped me to keep a sense of humor. Nickolas reminded me of why I was doing this in the first place: love. Love is what created my baby, love is why I was birthing my son.

I learned that I am beautiful. Strong. Brave. A warrior. I learned that I am more than the composition of cells that scientists tell me I am. My body is truly a work of art. My body did this. It was made to do this. The female body is made to give birth. I always believed that, but now I know it. I know that I deserve to be a mother. I know that I can walk forward through all stages of parenting with confidence. After all, I birthed him right? If I can do that, I can do anything.

Instinct, courage, humility, fight, hope, strength: they all culminated into a masterpiece. My masterpiece. If I ever doubt what I am capable of, I will remember this experience and know, I can do anything. No matter what I do in this life one thing is certain; no experience will compare. And no creation of mine will be as perfect as my son is. He has my heart and soul. He is my genesis. Lincoln, you are my magnum opus.