walk with me (final installment)

Here are a few last stories I wanted to tell about the amazing people who helped me survive the worst of my illness. These stories tell me I am loved and that there is beauty that makes this world worth living in. I wish for the same kind of beauty in your life, dear reader, and also that you could be that beauty for someone who can see only ugly just now.

* * *

-Daddy, I just don't know how to live anymore.
I'm sobbing to him over Skype.
-It's going to be OK Sweetheart. That's why I'm coming.
-You're coming?
-Yup. I've booked a flight. I'll be there for the two weeks before Christmas, and then we'll travel back together. You won't be alone.

I don't argue, I'm so grateful. Daddy is coming! I get the same feeling I had when I was ten or eleven; I had hurt myself badly at school, skinned my left shin so I could see my white bone (I still have a scar). Somebody got hold of my dad and he came to get me, riding up on his shiny red motorcycle.

He's talking to me again, his voice calm and sure:
-Now just lie back, and I'll read some more of our book.

He reads from the Narnia chronicles until I start to relax again. I fall asleep dreaming of Aslan's Country.

Over the next few days I tell myself over and over again that soon Daddy will be here and it will all be OK.
He comes, and it is. Oh, I still have anxiety attacks and tears and panic, sometimes several times a day, but he's on his shiny red motorbike and I'm clinging on from the back. He is starting to make sense of the pain for me, show me something beautiful. There's a reason for it all and so, there is hope.

He walks with me, in the rain and the wind. He convinces me that my umbrella is safe. He cooks stir-fries and grilled cheese sandwiches. He scrubs the floor. He puts his hand on my stomach and marvels at the movement from inside. He and baby play poke-back. Every night, he reads to me until the fear finally lets go and I sleep.

The stories help a lot. They give me something of truth and beauty to hold in my mind against all the ugliness of fear. They distract me a little. They are important, and I can attend to them.

* * *

I'm in my usual one "safe" spot on the couch, talking to my brother over Skype. Or rather, listening to him as he walks me afresh through a familiar Bible story. Jem is at work, my mom and dad and Jem's parents are all away and all my friends are busy. But my family has arranged for me never to be alone, and they take shifts being "with me" over Skype, even just to watch me while I nap.

My brother finishes his story. I smile, exhausted through tears. The Word is taking on a whole new dimension for me. A mysterious, confusing dimension, but full of beauty and hope.

-I have to go now, J. Are you going to be OK? Is Christie going to call you?
-Yes, she'll be by in a few minutes.
-OK, let me pray for you.

Once we hang up I barely have time to run to the bathroom before Christie calls me.
-Hey J, how are you doing?
-Oh, you know, bad.
-Aw. You wanna tell me about it?

I tell her my latest crisis. Maybe it's the time I tried to boil all my tea towels and dish cloths. One of them was a cotton cloth I had crocheted out of bright purple and blue yarn. It bled dye all over the other cloths, and the water boiled over purple on the stove and into my cast-iron pan.

-Cast iron is porous, right? And Jem used the pan before I could tell him not to, so I think I've ingested some dye!
-And what do you think that's going to do?
-I don't know, but dye can't be good for the baby!

But I'm already smiling helplessly because I know what she's going to say...
-Oh dear, your baby is going to come out with a purple finger!

I giggle in spite of myself.
-Or a purple nose!
That's the kind of humor my darling sister used to keep me alive. Christie, you are amazing.

* * *

Finally, just one of the many stories about how my husband cared for me, with a strength and a wisdom I can only imagine must have come directly from God:

I'm standing in the middle of our living room, turning around and around, crying, shaking, screaming. I don't know what to do. I've done nothing all day but to wash my hands. Ever since I got out of bed, I've been at the sink, in a constant crisis of indecision and fear. I finally call Jem at work.

-I can't get the soap off. I didn't use that much at a time, but I can't get it off!
-J, calm down. What do you mean?
-There's this white film that won't come off my hands.
-It's OK, it's just soap. That isn't going to hurt you.
-But it could! It might have chemicals!

He has to go, and I'm still in tears. I spin in circles for another fifteen minutes. Then suddenly, Jem is there. He's scooping me up in his arms, carrying me, seven or eight months pregnant, to the bed. He carefully changes my socks, then washes his hands before coming back to the bed and he just holds me until I stop shaking.

When I can listen again, he speaks deliberately,
-J, all this is about getting sick and harming the baby, right?
-Yes.
-Hon, I want you to know that I take full responsibility for you getting sick. From now on, it is no longer your responsibility. I am the father, and I am the one responsible before God to protect this baby. Your job is to be the mother, the nurturer. Let me be the protector.

* * *

Allow me to end with a too brief and inadequate tribute to Jem. He is beyond doubt the one person who supported me the most, with the most endurance and grace. He suffered exhaustion, anxiety for my safety and our baby's, frustration, disappointment, unbelievable stress. But he walked with me through it all. Through the long nights when I would wake crying or screaming every couple of hours, he would take on the difficult task of calming me and waiting with me until sleep reluctantly returned. Through months of such nights, he stayed. He walked with me through panic attacks, held my hand, helped to ground me in the present moment. When it seemed impossible to find a good therapist or counselor, he kept at it. He reminded me to take my meds when I forgot, resisted, made excuses not to. He kept doing the cleaning projects I was constantly 'discovering' and couldn't even begin to do myself. He kept making soup and grilled cheese for me night after night, after a long day of work for him, and after coming home to an inevitably panic-stricken wife who had done nothing all day but lie on the couch and worry and come up with cleaning jobs for him to do, that MUST be done before supper.... He suffered for me and with me. But he did it with so much love and so much strength, that I admit I almost didn't notice. I was so wrapped up in my own suffering. That is what it is like to support someone through a mental illness: thankless, exhausting, lonely. Just ask my dear husband.

There were many others who gave of themselves and without whom I don't know whether my baby or I would have survived. These amazing people truly walked with me. I don't know how they did it. I know they suffered too.I received generously of their comfort, companionship, help, food. They each gave up time, freedom, energy, and spent of themselves without any expectation of payback. I had nothing to pay back to anyone.

I admit that part of the reason I have written these stories down is a small attempt to pay a little something back--something in the way of thanks at least, and maybe inspiration to someone like you to walk close to someone like me.

Walk with me, Part 3

A third installment in my series of stories of the incredible support I received. It gets more personal here--the people in these stories walked very closely with me through my deep dark valleys, so close that the mud of my suffering stuck to them too.

* * *

-Sweetie, I've gotten time off from work next week, and I'm coming to see you.

My mom is on the phone with me again, I keep calling her for cleaning advice.

-Oh, Mama, you don't have to...
-Well it's done—I've already gotten a nurse to replace me. My flight arrives on Tuesday....
After our conversation, I'm hanging onto the first shred of hope I've found in weeks: my mama will be here soon!

When she arrives, she walks me straight to the doctor. I'm well into my second trimester and haven't gained an ounce. The doctor seems to think the situation is getting serious. He refers me to a psychiatrist, but is hesitant to prescribe an antidepressant himself.

My mom knows it will be a month or more before I get in to see the psychiatrist.
-If you will take my word for it as a nurse and as her mother, I really think she needs to be on the antidepressant sooner.

We leave with a prescription, and by the time we get to the pharmacy near our house, she's convinced me to fill it.

For three weeks after she fills me with home-cooked meals, ice cream, cookies,... love. We go for walks. She wipes my tears when I'm too afraid to touch my own face, smooths my hair with the warmest, most perfect hands I've ever known, takes me shopping for maternity clothes and baby clothes, and comforts me as only my mother can. She keeps calling work to get another replacement so she can stay longer. Eventually she has to go back, but she's taken me in to see the psychiatrist by now, and arranged to have friends help me as much as possible.

* * *

-J, are you OK?

I've just dialed Christie on Skype. I'm in tears and exhausted and SO thirsty.

-No, I don't know what to do. I'm so thirsty, but there aren't any clean cups in the house.
-Oh Hon, you need to drink! Listen, this is what you've got to do. Go and get a cup, get some dish soap, turn on the tap--
-But the sink is dirty too!
-That doesn't matter, you're just going to wash the cup under running water.
-But won't dirty water splash up from the dirty sink?
-No, absolutely not. Have you got a cup? I'll walk you through this....

* * *

-Look at those leaves! I can't believe how huge they are! Here, let me get a picture of one, with your feet to show scale.
Jem's mom has her iPod out, and is exclaiming over the British Columbia fall beauty. She's managed to drag me away from the sink and take me for a walk. We've been using our iPods to communicate for months, sending pictures back and forth of my growing belly, of food and art and Bible verses. Now she's here and now I'm in the pictures she sends out. There I am, proudly holding a yam I managed to clean under her direction. And here I am cuddling a fuzzy pink giraffe sleeper she bought for our Pipsqueak. For some reason, I can always look at that little sleeper and see a healthy baby. There we both are, Jem and I, setting up Pip's bed.

She and Dad drove up from Alberta to bring us the car we just bought. Dad goes back soon, but she'll be staying with us for a couple of weeks.

These days, I stop just surviving moment to moment, and live. I wake up every morning with something to do. She keeps me going. We walk a lot, go shopping, do crafts, sketch together, set up the tiny 'nursery'--normal things I hadn't been able to wrap my mind around on my own.

Mum, I don't know how you did it, but your visit brought fresh air into my fear-stifled existence.

* * *

I wake up and breathe relief. Wednesday. B is coming. Most days I wake with dread, unable to believe I'll make it through the day, almost wishing I won't. The days B comes are different. There's something to hope for, some direction to the day, somewhere to go and someone to look to. We go for walks together. We do crafts, look at pictures, go shopping. Then she makes me lunch and tucks me in for a nap. When I wake, she has tea and goodies ready, and she stays with me until Jem comes home
.
When she appears at the door this morning, she has a package for me. Surprised, I open Angel of Hope. The simple wooden figure holds up a candle toward me, sheltering the flame with a cupped hand.

-I thought today we could look up verses about hope. We can write them on index cards so you can have them to remind you every day.

I have tears of delight. We walk together to her house and gather Bibles, concordance, index cards and colored markers. There is nothing for me to worry about, only index cards to fill. When the afternoon is over,  she walks with me back to our house.

That night, I tape hope words to doors, windows, cupboards, even shower walls.

B is a mother to me. She makes sure I eat, sleep, go for walks, get enough to drink. She takes me to appointments. Even through her own misery of a month-long migraine, she comes to see me, sends me meals, calls to see if I'm OK. Closer to my due date, she helps me pack for the hospital, dreams with me about that day.

There is no way to express my gratitude to my surprise mother.

* * *
More to come! Tune in next time to read about the one who helped me see Aslan and beauty in the darkness, a Skype rescue relay team, and the very best and strongest support a girl could have: my Jem.

walk with me, continued

As promised, a few more stories about the kind of support I was blessed to received from dear friends during the worst of my illness. Do you think you could do anything like this for someone you know?

* * *

-How can we help...?

Jem is beyond stressed. I've told him, of course, you can tell the guys at prayer group what's been going on with me. I know he needs support. The guys are great; they hold him up with their encouragement. I don't mind that they know. I figure it's always good to have prayer. One of the couples have been friends of ours for several years, we often get together for games nights. Tonight they are over at our house. My friend repeats,

-Seriously, we really want to help. J, I wish I could come and spend time with you during the day, but I work all day. But do you need meals? Is it easier for you to be home or to come to our place? How are you doing for grocery trips?
-Wow, well... we could use meals sometimes. Jem is doing all of the cooking these days.
-Absolutely. We'll ask the other couples in the prayer group too if they can bring a meal once in a while. And how about this: we'll do your grocery shopping every week.
-What? No, we couldn't ask you to do that.
-It's no problem, we go every week anyway. Just send us an email with your list by Thursday evening, and you can write us a check when we bring the groceries by.

At the end of our evening, Jem tries to return the board game we've been borrowing from them for months, but they refuse it.
-No, you guys keep it. It seems to be something J can enjoy.
It's true, over the past few weeks that Carcassone game has become not just a helpful distraction, but a VITAL one. I can't even watch a twenty-minute TV show without being totally distracted by some danger to my unborn child. But for some reason, I can get lost in Carcassone.

L and C, you may never know how much we appreciate you walking so closely with us.

* * *

Jem has been planning to go to this hockey game for weeks, but I can't be left alone. I've asked my friend N to come over for a movie night. When she arrives, I'm at the kitchen sink, rinsing a dishcloth to wipe the table.
I'm so glad to see her, but I don't step away from the sink.
-I'll just finish cleaning up the kitchen and then we'll start the movie. Is that OK?
-Sure, no problem. How've you been?
-Oh, not great....
I go on rinsing, rinsing while we talk. I tell her some of my worries. She listens. She tells me a bit about her week. Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes later, I think I've managed to wipe the table, but now I decide I HAVE to clean the sink. I'm still rinsing the same cloth.
-I'm so sorry, this is taking me way too long. It's just, how do I know...? Is it clean? When is it safe? Have I rinsed enough?
-J, it's all you've done since I came.
She says it quietly, with no reproach.
I'm trembling. I finally manage to put the cloth down, dry my hands. We sit down and start the movie, but I can't concentrate. All I can think about is that I need to clean....
I tell her, don't worry about me, I've seen this one before. I'll just be a minute.
I leave to clean the bathroom. She stops the movie and comes to find me.
-It's OK, J, that's plenty clean. I think you're done. Come on, let's go watch the movie.
I let her take me back to the living room.
By the end of the evening, she's offered to come and get me the next day and take me over to her place. She'll do that often throughout the rest of my pregnancy, keeping my blood sugar level with her barley-and-cream concoctions, walking with me, keeping me entertained, taking me shopping, letting me feel useful playing with her daughter.
From the bottom of my heart, thank you N!

* * *

I'm with my dear friend E, who knows all about my deepest fears and darkest miseries. We've been out shopping, she's asked me about the last few days, how I'm doing. She's reminded me again, God is not punishing you, J. I'm struggling to believe her though.

We walk up together to her apartment, and she puts her sleepy baby girl down for a nap. I look longingly at a slumbering baby. I so wish I could sleep. I haven't slept more than three or four hours a night for the last month or so. Panic wakes me and won't let me lie down again until I've cleaned this, thrown out that.

-Do you want to have a nap?
-Nah, I wouldn't be able to sleep anyway.
-Well why don't you try. Here, I'll put a clean sheet on the couch.

I lie down, grateful. My mind is still whirring: but my hands are dirty, my hair is dirty, what if it gets on my face while I sleep? But I close my eyes and try to breathe slower. I sleep.

E, that was the best nap in weeks.
E, your firm, gentle wisdom walked me through several of my very worst days.

Walk with me

I must stop procrastinating these long-promised posts on supporting someone with a mental illness. It's a tricky topic, but I believe it is one of the most important we've touched on so far. That may be why it has taken me so long to get up the courage to put it out there—I'm afraid I won't do it justice. I admit that's a perfectionist/OCD fear, so I'd better face the fear and do it anyway!

If you know someone with a mental illness (and odds are, whether you know it or not, you do) and you want to be a blessing to them, you'll likely face some eggshell-delicate situations. If you really engage with them as a Christian brother or sister, you will have to wrestle with their pain, their guilt, and plenty rather muddy theological issues. And if you walk alongside them any distance, you'll find it impossible to avoid the muck and mire of their suffering.

In the next several posts, I tell stories of the blessings and support I received from amazing friends and family during the worst of my illness. It is my hope that you will find inspiration to do something similar for a person you know.

* * *

It is the fourth month of my pregnancy. I'm just home from my trip overseas, still down with a scary unknown tropical illness. Some friends have invited Jem and I over to their house for lunch. They don't know how much I've been struggling, but they ask how the pregnancy is going. I don't yet know that my worries are about to blow up into panic attacks and OCD, but I already have a sinking feeling of slipping hard and fast into another depression. I tell them about being sick, and my guilt and fear, and they pray for me right then and there.
Hearing someone pray for me out loud is powerful. I know I'm not forgotten; they're reminding God about me. These same friends continue throughout my pregnancy to ask about me, send cards, even bring over a meal. They keep praying and I'm buoyed up by their strength.

* * *

It's one of the few Sundays I make it to church during the second half of my pregnancy. One young mom walks over to me and asks how I'm doing. Now I've lived with mental illness long enough to know that trying to hide it is neither helpful nor ultimately possible. So when she asks with honest interest, I reply,

-I'm doing awful.

-Is it nausea still?

-No, no, panic attacks, actually.

-Oh! I know!

Seriously?, I think. That's not the response I expected, but wow is it good to hear.

-You do?

Indeed she does, and though her situation and anxieties were not all the same as mine, she really can understand. She spends time with me, walking me through her illness and recovery, and all the resources and materials that helped her get through. Knowing that I'm not alone, that someone else nearby has actually gotten through something similar is tremendous comfort.

Dear friend, your pain became comfort for me.

* * *

Another panic attack. Jem's at work, I'm shaking and crying over spilled rice: I've heard of food poisoning from rice. The offending grains are all over my counter from dinner last night. Should I use bleach?

My pregnant self is suffering a serious blood sugar dive, but I can't prepare food on that counter.... I don't know who to talk to: I can't reach my mom, Jem's not answering his work phone. I'm hungry and thirsty, but panic-paralyzed.

Finally, in tears and desperation, I walk upstairs to our landlords'. I'm so embarrassed that I can't even clean up rice, but I need help! I know they are the kind of people who will try to understand, and are willing to help. They have already driven me to a psychiatrist appointment, and have borne with my recently way-too-frequent laundry and long showers.

They aren't home, but their mother who lives with them is sitting on the couch listening to a book on tape. She's a dear, godly lady, over ninety and losing her vision. A real prayer warrior; I am aware she prays for everyone she knows. Even though she can't see me, she knows I'm upset. She gets up, walks over to me, holds my hand for a long time until I stop shaking. The touch of her feather-soft hands brings me slowly back to now. My pounding heart quiets.

FREAK-OUT

Had a major freak-out session this weekend. A set-back. It wasn't pretty.

But here's the story: as I wrote in my previous post, I'd been working hard on cooking with raw meat. The first night with hamburger went relatively well. The next time was a lot worse though, I think because I'd had time to ruminate over what I might have done wrong the last time.... The third time was definitely no easier, but the fourth.... Well, let me tell you about the fourth.

I had decided it was time to thaw the roast Jem had bought a couple months back. It took several days to thaw in the fridge. I thought it was sealed from the store, but even so, I had it double-bagged because I do that with things I'm worried about, even if I'm sure they're sealed. Apparently I was wrong, which has only confirmed my fears about people handling un-sealed packages of meat and then touching other things in the grocery store, and putting the trays of meat on the belts where other food goes....

The bloody thing bled all over my fridge.

Panic. My voice rising with my fear, my prayers screeches of, "Dear God, I don't know what to do!" Tears. Pushing Jem out of the way. I have to do this myself. Shaking, crying. Paralysis. Then almost uncontrollable foot-pounding--it's an involuntary reaction of mine to severe mental anguish, sort of like someone might jump up and down from the pain of stubbing a toe, wring their hands after biting their tongue, or writhe during a contraction in labor.

Finally, some decisions through the fog. Wipe, wipe, wipe. Wash hands. Grab the rubbing alcohol. Wipe wipe wipe some more. More soap more water wash hands pour boiling water more alcohol. Splashes on the floor oh no more alcohol.

Jem, very wisely, very calmly, playing with our girl in the next room.

Finally, Jem says after about three hours (I don't remember time passing. It felt like 30 minutes and it felt like 30 hours), I breathed and walked out of the kitchen. Did laundry, had a bath, worried about getting germs from the meat into the bath and splashing from there onto the floor.... When I finally satisfied myself at least momentarily that I had cleaned myself and the bathroom well of germs, I got out, got dressed, and crashed on the couch, exhausted and dizzy. The rest of the day I barely had energy to read to my lily-girl.

But we had roast beef that night.

Now, days later, I'm still worried. What if I missed some of the meat juice? What if some of it dripped onto the vegetables and we didn't notice? Reddish-brown stains keep popping up to taunt and terrify me. And anything in the kitchen I don't specifically and clearly remember having cleaned with rubbing alcohol is scary to touch.

So, even though on the day of the roast, I really gave way to my fears and did a TON of OCD behaviors, I'm doing ERP now. I'm exposing myself to the fear that meat juice dripped on the vegetables, and we've eaten salad every day despite my worry. I don't bleach or use alcohol all over every single reddish-brown stain I see. And I keep using the kettle that I didn't clean completely, and I don't wash my hands after touching it, even though I worry about that for hours and hours until I can take my anti-anxiety meds and fall asleep.

My amazing psychologist, K., is working with me on a type of technique to deal with anxiety called mindfulness. No, it isn't Eastern meditation. It's just the concept that the best way to deal with negative feelings is to stay in the present moment. Anxiety usually keeps me focused on either the past or the future: worry that I did something wrong in the past, terror about what may happen in the future. Mindfulness grounds me in what is going on right now. So I acknowledge that yes, I'm anxious right now, but that the anxiety itself doesn't mean anything about reality. It's just a feeling. And a feeling can't kill me, or anyone in my family. So I stay with the intense feelings of fear, endure them rather than doing everything possible to get rid of them. I don't clean that stain and I don't wash my hands and I tell myself that I won't be anxious forever. My heart pounds and my stomach feels like it's tied up in tangled fishing line and my brain goes over and over the possibilities, imagining the spread of E.coli around the house. It's tough. No, it's brutal. But it works. As the days go by, I notice that I'm a lot less worried about that stain, that kettle. And then I realize that we haven't gotten sick yet, and it's probably a bit late now to get some horrible disease from a drip of meat... how many days ago?

Thanks be to God, Who delivers me from all of my fears (Psalm 34:4).

Boastful confessions

I'm working tonight on a longer post about supporting someone with a mental illness (hopefully to be up soon), but there is a jubilant, victorious wind blowing through my mind that I must acknowledge. And actually, this does have a lot to do with support.

Someone dear gave me a wide and generous complement today. It gave me the extra boost to make this evening's challenge less heavy. She told me I was brave. Everyone has fears she said, but most people can ignore them. J faces hers every day. Her words warmed and strengthened me, and then...

...I cooked hamburger for supper! Heh heh. And I did it with no OCD behaviors. Or at least very few. I've been working up to this high bridge-walk for a long time. My psychologist and I decided that this was the week, and I am to cook hamburger every night for four or five nights. Tonight was the first. It was hard, but the shaking and the crying and the paralysis didn't happen this time. Whew. And Jem was proud of me. That felt so good. And Lily-girl DEVOURED the stuff, with obvious pleasure. That felt good too.

I find I am enjoying myself, despite my fear. Another quick little anecdote before I sign off:

Last week I went to a visiting author's lecture at the downtown library. A special treat made possible by Jem, who stayed home and put our girl to bed all by himself. I sat next to a fellow who, I learned, was doing his PhD in English--of all things (imagine sitting next to someone who tells you they own a chocolate-making business). He asked me what I did. I don't think I had been asked that question before, and I don't think my next words had yet passed my lips:

"I'm a mom."

I found I said it with pride, and felt just the same as if I had modestly confessed to being a rocket scientist and a computer programmer in my spare time.

It's no big deal. I'm really good at it. ;-)

Lily's Birth Day

I walked home today in the sun with my one-year-old. My one-year-old. I have had this gorgeous creature's company for a whole year, and I am bursting with gratitude.

Her birthday was two weeks ago now. We celebrated with Kleenexes and baby Tylenol and a store-bought cheesecake with grandparents and an aunty who came over to make tea for the sickies. Poor baby--to be sick on her first birthday!

Notice the baby Tylenol on the counter?

She's showing you how old she is!

But then last Sunday we really celebrated: with balloons and paper streamers and cake and pink lemonade and "champagne"! I loved planning the party.  I was heady with the excitement of getting to show off this darling daughter to friends, to celebrate her, enjoy her and the amazing fact that God has allowed me a whole, delightful, precious year.

A friend put it beautifully in an e-mail to us after the party: "How do you fête a daughter like Lily?" It was indeed my joyous conundrum. His answer was our best effort: "With strawberries and books and Grampa's champagne!"

But my fête isn't quite complete: I wish to follow suit after Christie in recalling the searing victories and triumphant pains of my daughter's birth story.

It began with two little words you never want to hear from a medical professional, especially if you have an anxiety disorder: "Uh oh." It was the day after my due date, and we were at our *last* (we hoped) prenatal appointment with the midwife. We'd finished discussing measures I could take to get labor going, if I wanted to, we'd heard our Pipsqueak's heart beat, and the midwife was taking my blood pressure. I've always had great blood pressure readings--typically on the healthy low end. But that day, it had sky-rocketed. So, my wonderful midwife straight-away rocketed us all off to the hospital, where I was hooked up to a fetal monitor for an hour, had multiple tests done, and was diagnosed with pre-eclampsia and subsequently induced for labor.

I was strangely calm. I think I understood the gravity of the situation: the reality was, without medical intervention, both my baby and I could have died. But something--or Some One--told me that everything was going to be okay: I had my midwife, she had caught it in time, my mom was there, my Jem was with me, the doctor would do everything necessary, the hospital staff could handle this situation, and Pip (the name we used for her before she was born) would soon be in my arms!

Things went smoothly, though intensely after that. The labor pains were very soon hard and fast on top of each other, so that there was often barely time to breathe deep in between them. But I was, as I had imagined, just grateful for the physical pain that replaced the mental anguish of the months of waiting. My mother coached me, Jem comforted me, my midwife instructed and encouraged. A pediatrician and team came in to be there when baby was born.

Then suddenly, her warm, wet, wiggly, beautiful body was on me for just a moment. They whisked her away to make sure she didn't inhale meconium, and checked her all over, with her daddy holding her and letting her suck on his finger for comfort. I held her again. She looked deep into my eyes with her new ones. I recognized her, named her.  But I could not name the feeling that coursed through my torn and tender body--a love beyond words. My mother recognized it though, and in her arms, with my daughter in mine, I was just so grateful to her and for her.

I had torn, but not nearly as badly as Christie. Later on, I could only admire her gratefully for the wisdom and kindness and restraint that kept her from telling me the details of her birth story until after I'd had my own experience. Once I'd been stitched up, my mom gently helped me into the shower.

It may sound silly to most of you, but that shower was one of the most memorable experiences of my life. How to explain? For months, showers for me had been compulsive, exhausting, terrifying. Many days, there were two or three, often hour-long showers. I would finish shaking and crying and freezing (I nearly always ran out of warm water), never sure I'd done it "right". Washing my hair, which I did typically twice every day, I would hold my breath and close my mouth tight, afraid dirt and germs or chemicals from my hair and shampoo would run into my mouth and affect my baby.          

This shower was different. I was shaking yes, not from anxiety but from the effort of the labor that had brought a healthy baby into the world. I felt the warm water course over my body, and I opened my mouth and let the water run in, and it tasted like freedom.

There followed three days of joy and almost complete freedom before I plunged back into the darkness and terror. But I thank God who in his kindness gave me those three wonderful days of relief with my Jem and my mom and my new little Lily.

And now He's given me a year. A year of joy and wonder and new, growing freedom, and indescribable love and gratitude for God's gift of grace.

I wrote in my diary on her birthday: "I really can't believe it's been a year--a whole year since that night of ripping pain and insane strength and uncontainable joy. The first time her soggy new skin landed slippery on my tired, stretched-out abdomen, she looked at me, deep in recognition. She still looks at me with the same dark, wondering eyes and the same tiny fingers curl around mine and I can't believe I've had a year of this and where have the moments gone and don't let them slip away and please give me more years of this! I've never known such purpose or such joy."

My dear little Lily,

"On the night you were born,

the moon smiled with such wonder

that the stars peeked in to see you

and the night wind whispered,

'Life will never be the same'

Because there had never been anyone like you...

ever in all the world!"

(Nancy Tillman, On the Night You Were Born, 2005)

And here you all, is Lily's contribution to this post!:

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(I'm just so proud of my little budding writer!)