Dear Mom,

Dear Mom,

Last night I had a horrible nightmare. I dreamt that you were very sick, and that we knew you were going to die, like it had already happened once and we had to do it all over again. It was awful! We had to talk about things like chemo, liver transplants, ascites, and then funeral plans. It was awkward and depressing and I hope I don't have to think about that stuff again for a long time.

Love,.......

And then I woke up.



And then I remembered.



Lord, from the nightmares, deliver me.

Looking forward... missing her...

I am missing my mom so much tonight I can hardly breathe. Often I wonder if people get tired of hearing me speak of my mother, and of her death. I mention her a lot, because she was very important to me. She was the woman I looked up to and respected the most. I valued her opinion,and my life was full of experiences with her.

Now, I am at a point in my life when a lot of changes are happening... graduating, finding a new job, considering the possibility of having children fairly soon... and she is not here. She will not be there when I walk across the room to receive my MSN pin, or at my graduation in May. She will not be there for me to call when I find out whether or not I got the job. What hurts most these days is when a laboring mom kicks her mother out of the delivery room. I want to say so badly, "Please, let her stay. Let her see the birth of her grandchild. One day you will wish you had let her stay." I used to say I would not want my mother in the delivery room with me, and now I would give anything in this world if she could be there. It breaks my heart that I will not be able to call her and tell her when I find out I'm pregnant, and it hurts worse that she will never see those grandchildren. I know what it's like to never have known all of your grandparents, and to always wonder what they were like and what kind of wonderful relationship you could have had with them. My children will have to wonder the same things, and I hate that for them. I hate that I will never get to go baby clothes shopping with my mom, and I will not get to experience how she would have spoiled them as she did me.

I heard someone say tonight on a TV show, "I never knew I would still miss my mother when I got to be this old." It kills me to know that in 50, 60, or 70 years, I will still be missing my mother. She will never be there at another Christmas or fix Thanksgiving dinner. She will never come to another one of my Halloween parties, and help me make food while wearing a poodle skirt and wig. She will never be there to call. I can never talk to her on this earth again. And for someone who always spoke about wishing her dead ancestors would try to communicate with her, I have not heard a peep from her. She is nowhere to be found, except in my memory, and that, on nights like this one, is not enough. I need desperately to talk with her.

I want my mama. I miss her.

Lord, from the pain, deliver me.

I'm ready...

They told us before integration, "Your time will fly by and then you'll want more time. You won't want integration to end." Well, I'm sorry to say that I do absolutely want it to end. They told us we wouldn't want it to end because we would want more experience as a student, more time to mess up under someone else' watch. I just don't agree. It's definitely not that I think I know everything now (Good Lord...), and think I'm ready to be on my own. It's more that I can finally see my life as a midwife. I can see myself going to and from work and being on call for deliveries. I can see myself coming home to my husband and children after work in the evenings, or having to leave my little boy's soccer game because I got called in for a birth. I'm ready for that. I'm ready to be the midwife in the room. Any room. All the time. I know it will be crazy difficult at times. I know I will want to give up. I know there will be times when I wonder why I did this. I'm ready for that. I'm ready for my life as a midwife.

A midwife in the room...

I caught a glimpse of it tonight.. being "the midwife in the room". This experience changed me just as I knew it would- I just didn't know how it would.

Allow me to tell you some of the story...

After a long couple of days, I was so very happy to be crawling into bed tonight at around 9:45pm. I thought, "Our induction won't go until tomorrow... I can sleep until I wake up." Then, at 11:30, my preceptor, who was down the hall from me :-), called and said something to the effect of, "Homebirth... heart rate 220's... bringing her in... do you want to go?" Because I was so very much in dreamland, I blew off what she was telling me as being 'no big deal', and drifted back off to sleep. In a matter of seconds, I woke back up and wondered if the conversation I had just had even actually occurred. I had to check my phone to be sure. Suddenly, I felt completely compelled to get out of bed and go to the hospital with my preceptor, who was, at that moment, pulling out of the driveway. So, I threw on my scrubs and headed that way as well.

After arriving at the hospital, we waited for the patient to arrive, and, not very long story short, we experienced a very beautiful birth from a "different perspective" ;-) (Denise, that one's for you.).

And a very different persepctive it was.

I'm still not comfortable enough in myself to get right up in a woman's face and say comforting things to her in a comforting voice... that is a talent I am still developing. So, I was not her primary care giver, but I was very much involved in what was going on.

It is now that I realize that we, as midwives, are all connected on the same plane... the great cosmos... whatever you want to call it. I've never said the word "cosmos". There we were... the Certified Professional Midwife that transferred the patient to the hospital from the homebirth, the Certified Nurse-Midwife, otherwise known as my preceptor, and me, the lowly nurse-midwifery student. We were one... supporting this woman's labor all in varying degrees, all in different positions (literally), but we were one. I felt so comfortable knowing that the other two midwives were there with me, and suddenly I felt like "a midwife in the room". I wasn't "the" midwife... I was "a" midwife.

I am a midwife.

It was with this realization that I was again reminded what a humble role the midwife plays in a labor and delivery. Yes, we know a lot about what is normal, what is not normal, and how to treat each differential. But, in the grand scheme, we really are glorified cheerleaders. We are simply "in the room". Tonight, I attended my 20th birth.

I was a midwife in the room.

Lord, from the pride and into simply being a midwife, deliver me.

Integration

As most of you know, I'm now in Toccoa, Georgia for my integration, and last, semester of the nurse-midwifery program. This semester is meant to let us "find ourselves" as midwives; basically, to let us practice as midwives under the direct supervision of a certified nurse-midwife.

So, here I am... for ten weeks.

The clinic I'm working in is wonderful. It's actually much better than I had anticipated, as none, well, maybe a couple, of the patients I have seen look like characters from 'Deliverance'. (Insert banjo music). The patients are great. The staff has welcomed me with open arms. I am happy there.

The birth situation is going beautifully as well. I have already attended two births (see how my use of words to describe a 'delivery' has already changed?). As my preceptor mentioned, we once said "I delivered a baby". Then we said, "I caught a baby", as in one of my instructor's phrases, "Pizzas are delivered. Babies are born." Now, I say, "I attended a birth." Moms deliver the babies. I make sure they don't hit the floor. That's about it. In another instructor's words, "I am a glorified cheerleader."

As far as all this goes, it sounds as if things are going well... correct? Well... yes and no.

You see, I am a serious homebody. I crave nothing more than to be at home with my husband, "in my dirt" as Grandmuz used to say, with my animals, in my hot tub, washing my dishes, what-have-you. Now, I am in someone else's home (my preceptor's- who I am so grateful to for inviting and hosting me). I'm in a town I've never seen before. I am uncomfortable, but honestly, I can't pinpoint why.

Here's my theory: I asked God long ago to make me into the person and midwife that He wants me to be. I believe He's working on it. I know this sounds terrible, but I don't think I've ever been through anything this difficult other than my mother's death. I've only been here since Tuesday night (this is Friday night), and I am absolutely mentally miserable. My only logic that I can fester up is that God is absolutely breaking me down to my core, as to make me into the person and midwife He wants of me. I cannot explain my misery any other way than this.

In the past, with friends and family members whom I knew did not know the Lord, I have prayed for God to make them so miserable that they have no other feasible choice than to turn to and accept Him. Granted, I have 'known' the Lord for 13 years now. Now He's doing something different. I believe He's stripping me of all of my comforts... breaking me down... and revealing the person I am to become as a result of this nurse-midwifery program and my experiences during it. My beautiful preceptor said to me tonight, "I'm a midwife all the time." I want to feel that way. I crave to feel that way. An instructor said to our class once, "At a certain point, you'll feel like the midwife in the room. It will be a very specific time, and you will recognize it." I am desperate for that moment. I have not felt it yet. I have to believe that God is breaking me down so that when that moment happens, I will notice it. I will be focused on it.

Apparently, there is more to integration than we thought.

Lord, from this misery and into Your perfect will for my life as a midwife, deliver me.

Someday I will be strong enough...

Some lyrics to a new song that features Taylor Swift say, "I wish I was strong enough to lift not one but both of us. Someday I will be strong enough to lift not one but both of us."

These lyrics make me think of my mom and her fight every time I hear them. I was at a point in my graduate degree that I had not yet learned what her symptoms meant, and to be honest, I never thought to search regarding them. She presented with pretty regular bloating and constipation, which I thought nothing of. I wish I had been strong enough in my knowledge of GYN problems to recognize what was happening.

As I dwell on what I was unable to do for her, I am encouraged by the second half of these lyrics. "Someday I will be strong enough to lift not one but both of us." I am strengthened by my knowledge of women's GYN problems and someday hope to strengthen the lives of many women who present with those same symptoms and others. Maybe some day, my ability to help other women will be a memoriam to my mother, who, although very strong, was unable to overcome the cancer that ravaged her body.

Everything happens for a reason. I still believe that. We serve an amazing God Who places us in situations to strengthen us. Sometimes, the reasons are unclear. I am sure there are many reasons why the path of my life has gone the way it has. God has shown me that one obvious reason is so that I will be present to help other women who encounter these problems.

This is one of the many reasons I will soon become a midwife.

Lord, from any doubt as to why I am here and what I am doing, deliver me.

I miss her.

The pain I feel tonight is so great I can hardly breathe. My eyes are nearly swollen shut from the amount of tears I have cried in just a few minutes. When the flashbacks come, they come hard. I cannot stop them, although I wish I could find a way.

I cannot help but wonder the fear that my mom experienced during her entire illness, but mostly during the last few hours. What did she feel when the doctor told her there was nothing more they could do? Did she ever feel alone that night, or was I there enough to comfort her to some extent? As she gazed up at me, gasping for breath during the last minutes of her life, what was she thinking? Was she thinking, or was she already gone? Was she trying to tell me something with the look in her eyes?

I long, desperately, for one last encounter with her. I ache for closure from her about those last days and hours. Was I enough? What were her fears? What would she tell me, if we both had known those would be her last words?

The guilt I feel is sometimes tremendous. Why didn't I call my dad sooner to get to the hospital? Why didn't I recognize the symptoms of her illness when she first started experiencing them? Would that have made any difference?

Why has all this happened? This is not fair. Do I really have to live the rest of my life without my mother? And my dad without his wife? Why us? Why was she the one chosen to become sick and die? What is so great about God's plan that this needed to happen? What in the hell is He trying to teach me? To be stronger? To be prepared for the next huge loss He will present me with? I certainly hope not. Was I such a terrible person that I needed this to slap me awake to what is really important? I could go on...

I try to laugh about some things. As a nurse, I learned that if you don't laugh about things, it will eventually get to you. I try to laugh at the "your mom" jokes... but in all honestly, they cut like a knife. I try to keep silent about our story... I don't want to bore you with the details of my mom's life and death, but I am aching to talk about it. I want you to care. I want you to ask me what it was like, and mean it.

I cannot rehash this anymore. I am worn out.

Lord, from the flashbacks specifically, deliver me.