The Official Story of My Son- Part I

It has been a long year but at last now is the time to write these words down that they might not be forgotten.This is only the beginning of the story and not the entirety. This is the first draft. Each child has their own story, this is just his and what I can write from memory in this space of time I have available to me on this date. Let the best of these memories stay with me always.

The Official Story of My Son- Part I

To preface his actual story of birth, I will provide a bit of background story first. Firstly, I have always had a dream son waiting. When I was 18 I had a prophetic dream, a vision whereupon I viewed the silhouettes of my children from down a garden path as they were walking ahead and I could clearly distinguish the shadowy backlight outlines of two older little girls holding hands with a much smaller little boy. At the time of this dream, I was very young and newly pregnant with my first daughter, who I had surmised to be a son, so I was not entirely trusting of my entire intuition at the time, but important dreams stick with you.

Having already had my two daughters, I was adamant that my official marriage would be the final step during which my family would be completed. Officially and legally, so I set that as a dream, as a goal of our relationship. I set a timeline, that I would be finished with this baby-making diversion from my “regular” lifestyle by the time I was 30. Wouldn’t want to age myself out too much by waiting too long and then watching my girls fly off into the world as I hit my 40’s only to start from the beginning with a new child. NOPE. By 30 or nothing, I decided, and I made my unsuspecting husband very aware of my resolve. He, on the other hand, is more of the thought preference of ‘someday’, which doesn’t provide any particular timeline for anything and is more of a placeholder for actual dreams that might someday come true. Well, y’all know how I be and ain’t nobody got time to wait around for someday so we dived into the insanity of what is actually referred to the world of Trying To Conceive . Let this mistake be known so that we don’t wander down this aisle of possibility ever again. The vitamins and the charting and how many possible things can you look at on a microscope without a Biology degree but to assess on the cheap what is this what is that? Oh the places the research took me.

As my readers may know though, we hit a point of difficulty that was something I hadn’t foreseen.

I had asked my husband very early on, very early, if he knew his bloodtype.

He didn’t, it was no big deal…. At the time…..

But things weren’t working, no matter how much the timing was just so, no matter how much I charted, no matter that I was fertile and I knew it, things weren’t sticking.

My first positive pregnancy test I got right away, the first month we tried, on my 26^th birthday, the line was barely there, but totally visible, and it confirmed my suspicions of slight physical shifts I had been feeling. It was an amazing day, filled with love and joy and fear and excitement. We said nothing but reveled to ourselves in happiness. What a wonderful day to be alive.

I took a test again the next morning, my Dad’s birthday this time, the line was more hesitant, not as prominently appearing as the day before. Whatever, it was probably that my urine wasn’t as concentrated…. But a big part of me knew that early pregnancy can be a tumultuous time for an implanting eggie and lots of them just don’t make it. The next morning I woke up to blood, but still went to church, still carried on—living doesn’t stop carrying on—we had an exciting premier to attend for my husband that afternoon—a piece he composed that was very beautiful but has only ever had that single performance--- and I bled out. There was nothing that could have survived.

I consulted my regular midwife who had worked with me my previous pregnancies and who had delivered my girls, she ordered a blood test for me and brushed off my concerns, “Come back and see me when you’re REALLY pregnant” she said when the blood levels confirmed that there was no more Hcg hormone left in my system. I was a bit dumbfounded at that moment, I was brushed aside with my valid concerns…. But this is normal I suppose, and I dove into my research.

The months that followed were heartachingly disappointing, time and time again. I forget how many tests I took, how many little lines I watched appear then disappear.

Months later I had found myself a new midwife and armed with months of charts and relevant data I headed in. I was prepared. She was not. But I got a referral to the next step up Dr, the Reproductive Endocrinologist, yeah, I was ready to take it to the next medicalized level, because something wasn’t working the way it should be.

My husband was not quite on the same page as me…. He doesn’t process as much as I do or as quickly as I do and we operate very differently in many regards. Whereas I was hyper aware of things, he was blissfully unaware. I don’t doubt that my emotions and hormones and other stressors were a factor in these things, as this baby was very much intentioned and prayed for in every possible way.

The details elude me, but some fight happened after the RE appointment was cancelled because he had not even the idea that he was expected to go with me to see the infertility dr, and although he had followed through with my insistence for HIM to see a dr to rule out medical issues, the GP he saw basically checked his blood pressure and ran a metabolic panel and said he was fine. HE DIDN’T EVEN COME HOME WITH INFORMATION ABOUT HIS BLOOD TYPE, WHICH IS THE #1 REASON I SENT HIM THERE TO BEGIN WITH

So he donated blood. 450mL of it, which is about a bottle of wine I think? But he did, and once he did that was the most amazing information we had that helped solved the puzzle of why things weren’t working.

His blood type is B+

My Blood type is A-

We are biologically as opposite as it gets. It don’t get any more different than this.

Le sigh. This is why the eggies wouldn’t stick, this is why month and month and month of early testing would give me lines, show me evidence of my body killing off potential children who weren’t strong enough to exist within.

I started asking questions of family members…. What was THEIR blood type…did they know?

And what I found helped our equations and probability factors more than anything.

My parents were AB+ and O+ which led to three children who were A-, A-, and A+

My full blood typing is AO-

Husband’s parents were AB+  and O+ which led to one of their three children who was B+

Husband’s blood typing is BO+

The combination of AO- and BO+ creates a dominant likelihood of 75% AB+, far less likelihood of AB-, slight chance of O+ (5%) or even  most rarely O-

(negative rhesus factors are far more rare than you would believe and my blood type is also much more rare than I ever knew prior to this information)

So this information combined with the newfound knowledge of my triggered immune system (from the diet, stress, background genetics, and aggrevating factors of x, y & z) I basically determined that there was little to no chance that we would get a baby and despite my prayers and wishes and religious vitamin taking and even the hundreds on acupuncture we had spent, I figured it would take extensive medicalized interventions to achieve this dream to have a child and there was only so much my heart could take before it was a wish I just left up to the Universe. Every AB combo baby we easily made was even more easily destroyed by my immune system and blood typing comes down to predetermined genetic factors that are unique to every possible conceptual possibility.

I basically said I was just going to spend my time raising baby chickens and being a Chicken mama and drinking lots and lots of wine. I would raise falcons and remodel my home instead. Husband and I would find some sort of middle ground to connect to in time and who knows how many more silent meals and car rides and evenings we would inevitably engage in--- as my hobbies and interests are so much more home-based than his free flightings into the world of man.

The day we brought home our chickens was also the day husband’s cousin’s long-awaited (15 years!) baby was born. We eagerly went to see her in the hospital NICU, I anxiously wanted to get my loving energy hands on her. My resignation at that point had been turned in and delivered. I had thrown away and stopped purchase of any tests months earlier. I even stopped tracking my period and said Whatever.

Cousin’s have noticed and even similarly remarked, something followed me home from the hospital that day, something saw me and said I MUST HAVE HER AS MY MOTHER and then something took hold and implanted right away. It was a peculiar sensation I remarked strongly feeling, standing in my living room facing the kitchen window feeling this buzz of a tingle deep within my, a pinch within my innards somewhere buzzing new electricity, I’m sensitive I swear I can feel a lot of things, and weeks and weeks later it proved my suspicions of the moment were true, a strong child had implanted itself inside of me.

My pregnancy symptoms were very strong immediately, but I chalked it up to my newly triggered illness--- surely I had eaten something that was so disruptive to my sensitive stomach and that was why I was so ill and so immediately weak.

We passed a point, a few days, where even my husband remarked to me he noticed I was late, of course I had noticed, I can’t help but notice these things, no matter how much I try to ignore or willfully pretend, but fear had the best of me and I rationalized, If it will be it will be and you will know soon enough, have patience.

So I waited a few more days until I couldn’t. None of the other spoiled eggs had ever made it this long…. And indeed, the test came back glaringly positive. I took another so husband could witness the chemistry in action, positive again. The digital readout was still early, this whole deal was still early. Holy cow, this was it, again.

By this point of my journey, looking back through blogs and recalling from memory, I was very jaded to the Western medical institutions but I can’t ignore their importance and value completely. I made my way into an ER, explained myself properly, and a few hours later walked out with bloodwork confirming my pregnancy and hCg levels. A few days later, in a mode of panic and fear of unknown, I made my way to another hospital ER, for an ultrasound and more bloodwork, and indeed, the levels were rising appropriately and a proper baby with a heartbeat had formed.

Each pregnancy I have encountered within my body has been as different as the child that grows from it. Each experience is totally unique to the child in so many ways.

This pregnancy was very strong and had a firm hold from the moment conception took place. There was no mistaking that.

I never knew I could throw up so much. I never knew I was so capable at throwing up on the go. That I could so carefully position my assortment of work cups, that I could effectively puke at the red light and be capable by the time it was green to go.

I felt like I was overtaken by an invader who stole every ounce of energy I possessed. I would nod off mid-sentence, crawl in to bed by 8:30pm. The couch became my solitude for rest.

We monitored things carefully in our own way. We purchased a medical grade Doppler to check for baby’s heartbeat and kept careful track of positioning and heart rate. I spent my “free time” resting by avidly researching and researching and researching. If I make any effort, I give it 100%.

The ultrasound at 12 weeks showed a baby human, not a fetal pig, it indicated it was a boy—something that proved true again at our ultrasound around 19 weeks- which was short and sweet- an ultrasound as routine as could be for our perfectly healthy baby the tech exclaimed. The radiologist who gave the final OK was even impressed by my knowledge in the techniques and was happy to talk about sepia portrayal for a minute even. People are always excited when anyone is interested in their job or background education.

Baby controlled everything about me. He controlled how much energy he needed (all of it) and what he was hungry for (omg all the meat) and how much I was able to use my brain to think of non-related baby things (15% left for math abilities and memory retrieval and basic language).

By 13 weeks of the pregnancy I was having issues with my sacrum/tail bone area and my spine. In my previous pregnancies, here and there if I was sitting or lying in a position that applied pressure, my tailbone would “pop” out of place and create intense amounts of pain until it went back into place. Only an issue during pregnancy. This pregnancy, the issues began as soon as my uterus got larger than normal sized and my pelvis spread to make room for the quickly-growing child-containing uterus. It became very debilitating towards the end of the pregnancy and generated a lot of physical pain and 1-2x weekly visits to the chiropractor to relieve the pinching of my sciatic nerve. In my elderly age, my body is even MORE flexible, and given that this child weighed the most of any of my children yet, my body was very accommodating to his giant fish bowl womb he swam within, gracefully poised within my spread pelvis bones, balanced on my strong stout tiger woman legs. I am stronger than Atlas, the world I carried I did with only my hips. Oh, the aches.

If I got pregnant again I would surely have to wear a support belt designed for such things, because another son the way the last one was would rip me apart, a mythological entrance surely if ever there was one indeed.

I felt very isolated during my pregnancy as well. My sisters are not the most sisterly and I do not have an overwhelm of close friends. I have no mother figure I trust to turn to for guidance and console aside from those who are exclusively Divine. I have friends that I can connect with, but my truest stories of being and my feelings are exclusively shared with those closest physically to me, God, and what I write within this blog here. These were my consults for the duration of my transformative time.

It was strongly my resolve, once things appeared healthy and normal on all fronts, to be the beast I was born as and can be and I absolutely did not want to have another hospital birth. I could have easily have borne my second child at home, she was an easy-peasy delivery and I had the right attitude about it, but her dad didn’t want her to be born there, we couldn’t afford to pay out of pocket for any care, and he wasn’t emotionally involved or educationally prepared. But having years to read and form opinions and educate myself on many more topics, I knew it was within a realm of possibility and it was something I felt strongly within me that I had to give effort towards. The hospital alternative was the easy fall back, I had read very inspirational stories of other women’s self and home deliveries and I felt confident that I too could achieve such a thing. I was not afraid of my lack of education and research that could be applied and I knew it was better to be aware than afraid of any possible issues that could arise.

I have a propensity towards the macabre anyhow and I poured myself into reading for hours about all of the possibilities of things that could go wrong. What did all of the critics have to say? How could I be the most prepared, most educated, most researched on my end of this spectrum, the mothering delivering end, and what could I do to ensure the safest chances for delivery of my child in my personal homespace? My husband is not as much a radical thinker of his own formed ideas (although he has quite a few I’m sure) but he is a willing supporter of my dreams and visions and he can help to ground them into reality also.

We attended support groups and meetings—we watched documentaries and YouTube explorations. We had discussion after discussion after discussion. We read the books—ALL the books- and we talked about all aspects of things.

I had joked to him early on, that since he was a Dr. that he should deliver the baby.

But I’m a Dr. of Music!  He would always protest—as if that fact alone disqualified him.

The plan was that the home-birth midwives would be there. The plan was that we would call them when it was time and they would arrive and be as non-intrusive as possible, but that they would be there for the delivery.

Heh heh heh

It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity.

The home birth midwives were a trip. They were very nice ladies but their approach is very different than what I was used to. Pros and cons to everything, and in retrospect I am still confident and sure in the decisions that I made. It was not a warm or welcome reception when I had seen the Midwife Nurse Practitioner at the OBGYN office, it was very cold and medical and sterile—the energies were all over the place depending on the variety of people you interacted with—my appointments were swift and cold and formal- I was assured that since this was my 3^rd I was basically par for course and since I didn’t have any questions –assumingly like many other woman must?- then I should come back for this and this and that. They were glad to work with us for the beginning of the pregnancy for normative tests, but after that I had to sign a form stating they weren’t at liability since I was homebirthing—they didn’t often deal with dual situations of care provided.

The homebirth midwives I chose also had a background in energy work, amongst other things. We vetted one practitioner when her methodology seemed a little too ‘laid-back’ for comfort but I was really taken with the duo I ended up seeing for care for the remainder of my pregnancy.

My care checkups involved a litmus test of a cup of my pee and roughly an hour of conversation checking in with how I was feeling physically and emotionally and suggestions for herbal or dietary supplementation. They would check baby’s heartbeat and probe his position. Check my pulse and heartbeat.

He was a lazy fetus who had a preference for using my left hip as a hammock. He is very persistent in his positioning but it posed no issues for delivery.

My homebirth midwives did not have a scale in their office, and we did not have one at home, so my weight gain check ins were sporadic and circulated around when I happened to remember to step on one whenever we happened to be at one of our parent’s houses. Parent’s will always have a scale it seems. In pregnancies past I gained 63 pounds, 71 pounds. This pregnancy the last I had officially checked was around month 7 and I was up 85. I wasn’t going to bother myself anymore with checking in because I knew I gained a lot no matter what, I couldn’t control how much I was gaining no matter what, and I hoped that I would lose it eventually. There was no sense in constantly checking in and making myself feel anymore terrible than I already felt physically from the sheer challenge of going from my normal sized tiny birdlike skeletal body to a hearty and full bountifully pregnancy woman balancing a world of wonder within. There is nothing better than outgrowing your panties and reaching sizes they don’t even sell at your favorite shopping store anymore. I DON’T KNOW THE REAL NUMBER THE SIZE WENT TO BECAUSE IT CONVERTS ONCE IT GETS THAT BIG

I’ve outgrown maternity clothes that I laughed at upon purchase and first wear because of how “tent like” they seemed with the hordes of flowing sweater sea of purple. I will never wear that sweater again.

It all goes with the territory, and having faced such challenges of conception I was constantly reminding myself how blessed I truly was to have this child, to have this opportunity to bring a new person into the world, to foster my love and raise another human being. It is truly a blessing to behold and not something that came around this time very easily. Nothing seems to be easy for me anymore.

My son’s pregnancy was the most up-hill challenge I have faced yet. Every day brought with it more weight of child, more weight of world, and never more before had I felt isolated, superstitious, completely and totally exhausted, physically incapable, mentally setback, and blessed. Completely and totally blessed in every ounce of being in all of it.

I dare not complain one bit. There is no room to complain when this is something for which you have wished.

I shied away from rational pre-celebratory activities for the baby this time around. As I said, I’m superstitious. It is common in other cultures to be cautious about the arrival of a new baby. For good reason—life is delicate, life is fragile, life is precious. Nothing about life is guaranteed.

If you recall, I had overdosed on all available literature as to all of the possibilities of everything that COULD go wrong, so I could be prepared in any case, logic and education is a very soothing thing if disaster strikes, I was prepared.

I had also decided to take the risk of home birthing, which our close family were strongly advocating against with a reasoning of main-stream westernized medical logic (forgetting that their parents had likely been born at home as well as generations before them. My grandmother likened it to using a shit hole in the backyard instead of a modern bathroomL then again she had a twilight birth for one child and I would never ever be game for that)

I didn’t feel it entirely appropriate to ask for anything to support this child. I knew it would be traditional for there to be an outpour of support from my husband’s family—as this was the first child of a new generation being born, but I don’t like to get too ahead of myself with preparations. I had read a number of stories about families who suffered losses and then were left to deal with the overwhelming material abundance that further deepened their pain because there was no child for to use these things and the things were a physical reminder and it was just harder in many ways.

I didn’t want to make anything potentially more difficult for myself in any possible future circumstance, so while I readied myself for a baby, I did not over prepare or anticipate too much in advance. He had a small amount of clothing ready, but not anything overabundant. I refused to remove tags off of much of what we received—in case of return for any reason.

The first week after baby was born we opened and took tags off of lots of things. It was a sweet celebratory feeling in a way, like we had the freedom to finally release. To do such a thing before his arrival would seem imprudent and presumptive.

We were thrown a modest baby shower on the insistence of my mother-in-law. It was a lovely affair and everyone she knew and who was related was there. I did not know many in attendance but was a celebrated attendee although it was a point of incredible anxiety for me—we are very blessed in material support.

No one was willing to throw me the particular kind of  party I desired and so my husband and I planned and hosted our own blessingway ceremony about a month before baby arrived. I had a handful of close friends who were also mothers and we convened in my living room and shared birth stories and excitement for my new child. We bound bracelets of rope to wear in the wait for baby’s birth. We blessed baby with traits and hopes for characteristics and we decorated a tree for him. Mandalas and candles were colored and letters to baby were written. It was a most lovely affair indeed.

The church choir which husband works with also threw me a small gathering, although it wasn’t until after baby had been born, as the initial plan for to do so had been forgotten- and remembered when I appeared during the second half of weekly practice readied for a party in honor of my impending delivery. A group blessing and laying on of hands was given- which was more valuable to me than any material gift. The gathering after baby had arrived was a small affair combined with a staff luncheon and although our finicky colicky infant was also there, it was very nice indeed.

For now this concludes Part I of this story. 4,000+ words deep and this is just a sprinkling of the background of the history of how this man-child of mine came to be.