Where Our Strength Lies

Little man has arrived.

I'll be honest--pregnancy is not unicorns and rainbows for me. Don't get me wrong.  I'm so thankful for the blessing of conceiving, carrying, and delivering healthy babies.  The process, however, is hard on my body.  The first trimester was filled with exhaustion and never-ending nausea. The second trimester, while usually easier, was a time of worry: would I go into early labour like I did last time?  Why were my contractions starting this early? These didn't feel like Braxton Hicks.  And they weren't.  "Irritable Uterus" was what I was told over and over again; a product of my age and the fact that this was my third baby. 

My uterus was not the only thing that was irritable. 

By the third trimester, baby was measuring consistently ahead of schedule, meaning I was seriously large and in charge.When all was said and done, I had only gained 25 pounds, but all of it in my belly.  Between a large baby and excess amniotic fluid, I was huge, uncomfortable, and barely able to move by the end of it.

While of course I looked forward to meeting our new little guy, what got me through was looking forward to my moment.

With each of my previous babies, there was a moment after they were born: everyone else had left, the hospital room was quiet, and I looked over at the tiny miracle in the bassinet next to me and thought, "I did it. I did it. I carried and delivered this little one, gave birth without an epidural, and now he is here." It's a moment of profound relief, amazement, and yes, a bit of pride that I had accomplished something I wasn't sure I'd be able to. 

I felt strong.

So I hung on to that moment, looking forward to when it would come for the third and final time. 

Except, this time, it didn't.

There were other moments, of course.  There was awe when I saw them lift my tiny man, purple and screaming, from between my legs. Love when my husband kissed my forehead and told me I was amazing. Fear when the NICU team came to suction my baby's tiny lungs. Relief when they gave him right back to me.  Joy when my oldest sons met their baby brother for the first time.

All of these were moments I'll treasure.  But they weren't the moment, the moment I'd spent months waiting for.

That moment never came.

Instead, I felt that strength in other ways: 

My midwife, sitting quietly next to me as I breathed, prayed, and meditated through painful contractions.  Her strong hands taking over for my husband, pressing her knuckles into the small of my back, massaging away some of the pain.  The nurses who held my legs up as I pushed, and held them up the entire time so I didn't have to endure lifting them with each contraction. 

And then, the most profound moment of them all:

Those same nurses, one on each side of me, walking me to the bathroom after my baby was born. Standing by me, helping me clean myself, and then literally pulling up my hospital-issue pad-filled underwear for me.

It's not a pretty picture.  It's not an image for a greeting card or diaper commercial. It's probably a scene you'd rather not envision.

But for me, those two women helping me pull my underwear up is the very definition of strength. Women are strong when we come together, when we surround the vulnerable, and step in when things are messy.

I wish I knew their names. I wish I could remember their faces.  The blur of post-delivery has erased both. What I will always remember is how they came alongside me and helped me in the midst of my mess and pain.