Birth Story, Postpartum Anthem, and the best passage from Saint Faustina

Last March, we welcomed a heavenly baby girl into our world. Incidentally, I haven’t written a blog post since that time! As I sat down to begin again (See previous blog post— To Just Begin) the intent was not to write out a birth story, but that was the story that flowed, along with some other thoughts. So, here you go! These reflections have been fruitful in this season of Lent— the time of crucifixion that ends in life anew.

Brian and I waved goodbye to the children as they continued to shout echoes of I love you’s, strapped in tight in the backseat of my parent’s black SUV. We would have a date night prior to the arrival of baby number four. That evening, we finally agreed on a girl middle name. I had a hunch that this baby would be a girl, so was distressed at our lack of certainty on her name. After all, I had been obsessing about baby names since the first moment we were pregnant, and even before we knew we were pregnant.

Miriam Catherine. For a girl, it had to have a Marian component. We thought about Mary, classic Mary. A lovely name. But decided on Miriam with a nickname of Mira. Her patron would be Our Lady of Fatima, who called for us all to, “Pray the Rosary for peace.” This seemed to be a theme for us during this pregnancy, as we did a 54 day Rosary novena for peace in our family, and I was further convicted about the importance of praying a daily Rosary. (Ah, need to get back to that habit! Seasons of life.) For the middle name, nothing seemed to be quite right. I wanted Joan for Joan of Arc, but that wasn’t it. Miriam Catherine seemed right when I said it, but I didn’t know why, as I didn’t really have any devotion to a Catherine, even though this is a bit strange considering my name is Katie. But, alas, as it came down to the wire I finally had a thought— which Saints were peacemakers? In a search, St. Catherine of Siena was the first to come up, as she reconciled so many groups of people in Northern Italy, as well as bringing the Pope back to Rome. Peace. Peace within ourselves. Peace and reconciliation between ourselves and God. Peace between all people near and far. Her name was set.

We had scheduled an induction because the logistics of having three other children is just hard. I was kind of hoping I would go on my own before this, but this time did not. We arrived at the hospital and our midwife started Pitocin. The dreaded Pitocin. Wait, am I sure about this? Was this the right choice? Second thoughts flooded my mind as our nurse (God bless her) definitely hit a valve and placed a very uncomfortable IV.

And so, it was 8, 9, 10, 11 pm. Contractions were steady but not nearly as intense as they need to be. Me: “I think they are getting stronger! [Smiles, gives a thumbs up]” My midwife: “Yeah, we have a long way to go.”

By midnight, I still had only progressed to 4cm dilated, which perplexed me, seeing as how my entire birth with Vincent lasted basically 3 hours. I thought these were supposed to get faster and faster each time, I thought, as a strolled down the hallway of Bergen, doing a deep squat with each contraction. Our midwife, Lydia, basically knew exactly what was happening the entire time and also what exactly would happen. In the past, breaking my water has resulted in a baby within the hour each time. The original plan was to wait until I was about at a 6-7 and then break my water if it hadn’t broken by then. However, being at a 4 for 3 hours was not what any of us expected. “Well, we could break your water now. Things will be more intense and you do have further to go since you’re only at a 4. But we could try that.”

After another 30 minutes with no change, Brian and I decided let’s have this baby. Go ahead and break my water— I mean, if things get too crazy there’s always the option of an epidural if absolutely necessary… Right?

She broke my water a little after 12:30, and within 2 contractions after my water was broken, I told Brian I needed an epidural. I hadn’t had one (or needed one, really) with Grace or Vincent, but now this was very VERY intense. Lydia agreed we could start preparing for an epidural, but reminded me of that pesky little detail: we would have to run fluids, which would take a half an hour. “Maybe by the time the fluids run you will be ready to push and then you won’t need the epidural,” she prophesied.

I had the most intense contractions every 4 minutes lasting 2 minutes each, and then, by the time the fluids were in around 1:15, she checked and I was at a 10. That is 6 cm in 45 min. A couple more contractions, one push, and Miriam was born at 1:24 am.

Let me just say, out of any birth I’ve had, these contractions were the ones that felt the most out of control. I keep using the word intense, but that doesn’t seem like it quite conveys how VERY VERY INTENSE they really were. Going from 4 cm to 10 cm and pushing in less than an hour was.. well... The feeling like a bolt of lightning may just surge out of my fingertips there was so much energy going through my body. It was like the feeling of the last 20 meters of a sprinted 400 meter dash, except involuntarily. Staying relaxed and surrendered to allowing my body to do what it needed to do took enormous effort. It was the classic ‘transitional labor,’ in which it pushes a woman to the very brink of what seems possible. This is impossible! I can’t bear any more! But you do. And in the end it is the cross that leads to life and resurrection.

The next morning Brian made a comment about how really, everything went super well and very smoothly. I remember saying, '“That was the worst hour I have ever lived,” to which he was quite taken aback. Apparently, things looked a lot calmer on the outside than they felt beneath the surface when I was in the zone. Nonetheless, gratitude is the only response to how it all went. This time the only bump in the road was Miriam needing bili lights, to which she affectionately earned the nickname ‘little glowworm’ due to the glowing pad which she was swaddled with for several days.

My GIRLS! Not knowing Miriam’s gender prior to birth was exciting for Brian, but again I found that the sheer relief of being done with labor far exceeded any emotion of excitement that we had a sweet baby girl. Although now I feel as though I need to pinch myself that I have boys and girls. Our children have both brothers and sisters. Such a gift.

I’m pale and (perhaps a little) anemic, she is yellow and (definitely) jaundiced. And yet so happy.

I always love having newborn pictures with Brian’s hands for perspective. So tiny.

So much surrounding the early post-partum phase is a mystery. So many things are profound and beautiful, and yet a new mother is rarely in an orientation to be writing things down. My mind was filled with insights and sparks for writing, and yet felt this very peaceful contentedness to let it all go, lose my thoughts, lose myself in these days with Miriam. It’s like when you fall in love and nothing else seems to matter. I was floating. Others did not need to share in this time.

Early Postpartum Prayer

The battle to pray continued, though this raw and primal time of instinct for survival is not typically associated with mental clarity. I went on a day retreat with Mira when she was about 6 weeks old. In the chapel there came a point where I finally was about to cry— I had been trying to meditate, to enter into scripture, to hear anything, to be attentive to anything catching my attention or tugging at my heart. But nothing. This retreat had been the hope of my interior life for several dry weeks. “Well, even though I am struggling to pray here in the rocking chair, and it seems all I can do is just marvel at my baby (JUST marvel, wonder, adore…) at least when I go on this retreat I will be able to have some really, ‘good,’ prayer.”

“Lord, where are you? Aren’t you with me?”

And then, the still small voice. I placed my hands tenderly on Mira’s soft hair and rounded back, wrapped snugly upright in the carrier against my chest.

“I am closer to you than I have ever been.”

This echoed and re-echoed in my heart. I stroked sleeping Miriam’s head and gazed down at her in immense gratitude. Jesus is here with me. In this bleary-eyed blobby mess of a time. And not just with me like some well-meaning spectator watching me and cheering from afar. Jesus watching in the stands of heaven— ‘Oh, nice job on that diaper change, you really did that lovingly. Gold star. Okay, well, now you totally ruined that nice moment by yelling at your other child. Minus one sporty point.’ No. This could not possibly be how my Eucharistic Lord would accompany me in this time, he who in the desire to be one with me has humbled himself to become bread and wine. He is here. Somehow in this innocent and beautiful child. Like Mother Teresa’s 5 finger summary of the Gospel, “You did it to ME.” It seemed the Lord was inviting me to simply be. It wasn’t just okay that I couldn’t stop looking at my newborn child, but it was exactly right. I didn’t need grand thoughts or insights or anything else besides just loving.

If there were an anthem for this time of sweetness— can I be close to you?

What is ‘good’ prayer?

Is mental clarity needed for good prayer?

If it’s true that we do need some intentional prayer time, how does this reconcile with the feeling of needing to just be in the moment and contemplate, be completely present with my baby?

What does it mean to enter into contemplation?

How is Christ trying to enter into MY life at this moment?

And oh, how easy it is to love you, sweet girl. Jesus is merciful and instead of being in the ‘distressing disguise of the poor,’ he comes to me in my Vocation of marriage in the very extremely adorable disguise of the poor. Babies are also the poorest of the poor, dependent upon others for everything.

Our True Rest

During these weeks and months a certain phrase would periodically pop into my mind. “My true rest is in the service of my neighbor.”

I would think of this phrase in the middle of the night, as I sat up groggily battling whatever section of clothing happened to be somehow bundled uncomfortably, sideways and twisted all the way underneath my body weight in the way of a hungry baby. I would think of it in the middle of the day when I finally finished picking up whatever it was I was picking up and then sighed a contented, ‘ah,’ as I sat down with a nice cup of afternoon tea by myself— only to have a child implore me with a book, “Mom, you promised.” I would think of it often and I couldn’t remember where it came from. At last, I began to think God must have a sense of humor. Seriously? This is what you want to tell me when I am totally exhausted in service to my neighbor? Really? How? Who said this? Is this even true?

Finally I used the google machine and found it was part of a quote I had found so striking when reading St. Faustina’s diary many years prior.

St. Faustina’s Prayer to be Merciful

“Help me, O Lord, that my eyes may be merciful, so that I may never suspect or judge from appearances, but look for what is beautiful in my neighbors’ souls and come to their rescue.

Help me, that my ears may be merciful, so that I may give heed to my neighbors’ needs and not be indifferent to their pains and moanings.

Help me, O Lord, that my tongue may be merciful, so that I should never speak negatively of my neighbor, but have a word of comfort and forgiveness for all.

Help me, O Lord, that my hands may be merciful and filled with good deeds, so that I may do only good to my neighbors and take upon myself the more difficult and toilsome tasks.

Help me, that my feet may be merciful, so that I may hurry to assist my neighbor, overcoming my own fatigue and weariness. My true rest is in the service of my neighbor.

Help me, O Lord, that my heart may be merciful so that I myself may feel all the sufferings of my neighbor. I will refuse my heart to no one. I will be sincere even with those who, I know, will abuse my kindness. And I will lock myself up in the most merciful Heart of Jesus. I will bear my own suffering in silence. May Your mercy, O Lord, rest upon me….

O my Jesus, transform me into Yourself, for You can do all things” (Diary of St. Faustina, 163).

My true rest is in the service of my neighbor. Well, Jesus, if you are my true rest— If my heart is restless until it rests in you, as St. Augustine described so very well—And if you are present in my baby neighbor, then I guess it does logically hold that my true rest is to be found in service to my neighbor. I feel like I am doing some sort of spiritual mathematical equation here…

This blog exists in part because I want to share ways in which I have verified the truth of this beautiful Catholic faith in context of my real life. And yet, some things are yet to be understood and remain mysterious. It continues to be a mystery to me how my true rest could be service. There are glimpses to be sure. It’s elusive. But, that quote! “that I may never suspect or judge from appearances, but look for what is beautiful in my neighbors’ souls and come to their rescue.” My heart resonates with and reaches out for these words. Something in me knows they are true.

Again and again I learn and deepen the truth— this is my body. In the poor. In my children.

Miriam turned one already today! God works slowly with us— I am constantly distracted and flitting like a fuzzy little moth from one thing to the next. God is patient. He has returned me to this theme here again. Really, again and again and again. He is present with me here. In my children. How does this look? How can I live this reality as though it is really the truth? How does this change how I interact with them? How does this change how I view rest or time or what is negative or positive or for or against me? There are more and more questions, so here I am writing to know my own thoughts and remember with gratitude how he speaks, as yet in mystery.