Now Six Months Ago

Brian and I and the dogs hiked up Mud Lake today to spread Ari's ashes. We have hiked to this spot many, many times. In fact, Brian and I had one of our first falling-in-love moments there. Sitting up on a large boulder, Brian played the guitar and sang a song he wrote. After, I pulled out a note I had written for her:

Dear Ari: Six months ago today our tears began. We were sad, so deeply sad. We were shocked, so deeply shocked. After our nine months together as a family, you were lost to us. We could not hear your cries. We could not feel your soft skin. You were a daughter lost and we were parents lost. We never once stopped loving you, but in the midst of our pain we could not find you. The last six months have been so hard in so many ways. Trying to build a house to make a home, trying to keep me and Brian together, trying to get in one piece again. We have struggled with drinking, out of control emotions, friends not understanding. We have hidden from our pain, been numbed by it. Yet, still at other times, we dove head first into the pain; embraced, surrendered, accepted it. Then only to backlash with anger and sorrow. This entire struggle has had one sole purpose. And that is to find you again. This time not wiggling in my womb but somewhere else, somewhere less immediate, less tangible, but yes, still there.

It makes me so happy, so deeply happy, and full, so deeply full to say that I have found you again and you have found me. We are no longer lost to each other. I talk to you with ease and trust. I see you in the clouds, in young girls, in dandelion tufts, in moths, in wind, in storms. I see you there- I feel you there. And I know you can feel me. I cherish getting to know you deeper and deeper.

Today, June 2nd, 2006, we spread your ashes at Mud Lake. From this spot you can see all of Victor, and from all of Victor you can see this spot. We spread your ashes and are reminded of your beautiful tiny body. We spread your ashes and release your body and soul fully and completely into the universe. We are happy for you to be free. We spread your ashes here but know you are everywhere- inside and out. Even though we are moving to Maine, we know you will always accompany. But, here, at Mud Lake, will always be a special spot, every time we visit or Liv and the dogs come for a walk. May your rich ashes bring nutrients to this soil. May the trees here grow taller towards the sun. May the wind carry your ashes down to the alfalfa fields below. May they land in the Teton River and flow to the ocean. May you touch every part of life and bring your riches along. Your ashes have been close by these months- in hand, in bed, by bed, on the windowsill. And now today we are ready to share you with all the world. We love you more than I ever knew possible and are blessed to also feel your love. Be Free My Sweet Arianna.

We kept a button that made it through the cremation and a teaspoon of ashes. These along with a piece of sage and a heart-shaped rock are now in her box. Brian and I had a good cry and a good smile.

Memories

15 December 2006
My dear Child Arianna: I am filled with your sadness today- sadness for you, from the loss of you. My body misses you inside me. Eating is different, singing different, sleeping different, knowing you are not inside to receive. I wanted to make a list of some of the things we did in our nine months. These are my memories, our memories. I cherish them. [Not in order]

Nana and Arnie's wedding, a rainy week in Maine, kayaking the Teton River, visiting Yellowstone, crossing Fox Creek by rope, traveling to California, Thanksgiving, baby shower weekend, wetland fieldwork, babysitting Major and Blaze, setting up your crib with Brian, prenatal visits with our midwives, modeling for an art class, making your Christmas present, evening stretches and readings with Brian, collecting the supplies you would need, camping in Palisades Lake, Brian and I moving into the Birdhouse, then moving into Joe Casey's house, playing with the neighbors dogs- Lamar and Philip, weekend retreat to Spring Creek Ranch, getting Max the cat, Jack the dog running away, Brian's baseball games, weekend camping at the Green River Lakes.

We had a good time Ari

Remembrance Ceremony

We had a remembrance ceremony for Ari on December 5th, 2006. A small group, including my mom and two sisters, Brian's mom and sister, our three midwives, and several close friends, gathered in the early morning chill in a place called Moose Creek. We gathered in a circle around a sage fire each holding a small pink candle. The creek provided a calming background noise, as I started the ceremony with some words for Ari. My mom spoke next, followed by my sister, who wrote down her words:

"Sweet Ari: You have blessed our family and graced our lives. Your peace and its purity are truths kissed to our cores. As you embark on your journey, rest assured you come from great strength and infinite love. Look behind you- you will hear us smile. Look to your left and to your right- you will feel your mother and father's hearts. Look ahead and you will see your path is lit and the journey bright."

Others shared their prayers and our close friend Molly sang. Molly is a soulful woman with a soulful voice. I don't remember what the song was or any of the words- but the feeling was unforgettable. Her notes sifted into our bodies and lifted us up. I focused on the soft line between the forested hills and the cloudy winter sky. My hands shook from the cold and my chin quivered on the brink of tears. But Molly sang with power and calm, unwavering and steady, holding us all there together.

Still others added to our ceremony and Brian concluded. He and I went on a short walk through the woods and headed home for some quiet time. It was said later by more than one, that the smoke from the fire blew in the direction of whoever was speaking, slowly shifting around the circle. True or not, we all felt Ari there and she felt us too, I know.

These Last Few Hours

28 November 2006
These Last Few Hours
By Dee Dee McColl

It is important to me
that I spend a part of the next few hours
along with you in the darkness.

You and I
will never be this close again.
By morning
you will be a tiny person all your own.
No longer the kicking, demanding
bulge in my body
that I have grown so love so well.

I pray that god will safely guide you
on your journey tonight,
and ask him for the strength
to help you all I can.

Again you signal
your impatience
to be free.
Time to wake Daddy.

28 November 2006

Dear Riley or Arianna: Winter is filling the valley as I write. You remain in my womb, only days remaining. We are ready for you to join the rest of the world, whenever you are ready. Just wait until you see all that awaits you- our universe is so much more amazing than the tiny world of my belly. I cannot wait to introduce you and watch you navigate through. I cannot wait to gaze at your face and touch your baby hands. I cannot wait to receive all you will teach me and hopefully provide you with knowledge too. Even though we now share the most intimate of relationships, I cannot wait for my eyes to fall to yours. Truly miraculous, my miraculous child. See you soon! -Mom

September 2006

5 Septermber: Today some bad news of death- Nick's mom passed. It is not this morbid thought I wish to share, but rather, the sense of living that I was reminded of today- you growing in my soft round belly. I am so full of gratitude for you- your creation, your energy, filling my space. Thank you baby! We also met Michelle, a midwife, who will likely helpy you into this world. I love you!

20-24 September: Your first trip to California!

June-August 2006

3-9 June: Your first trip to Maine!
14 June: The first book I read to you is "With Love: 10 Heartwarming Stories of Chimps in the Wild" by Jane Goodall. I don't think you can hear yet, but oh well, I am sure you are getting it in one way or the other. -Mom
20 August: Dear Baby, I had a wonderfully vivid dream of you last night. You were a girl. Every time I entered the room, your face and whole body would light up. It felt so good and loving. You have really started kicking now- mostly in my right rib cage. Brian has felt you too. You feel so real. I rarely feel alone sitting in an empty room, as your presence is more full now. I went to Kat Willcox's baby shower on Friday- some already mothers, some babies, some expecting this winter too. Tomorrow we find out if we are headed to Maine or stay here. Either way you will be happy, I know. I love you my baby!

9 May 2006

Dear Baby: Jack, our puppy, and I are cuddled on our new couch under one of you soon-to-be baby blankets. Your Grandmother, Nana, got it at a used clothing store. Imagine the history we are continuing. I threw up today- only the second time. So I guess you are being pretty easy on me. Its been two weeks since the first ultrasound. It was almost unreal to see you there- so foreign looking from what I expect humans to look like. But you didn't feel foreign. I felt so comfortable, laying there on the doctor's table, just gazing at you, hearing your heart, watching you wiggle. Where did this energy that is you come from? From what spark, electricity, whirlwind did you come to find my belly? When the ultrasound was over, I wanted to stay with you. But then I remembered you are still with me and I am still with you. I want so badly to hold you but it is also true, I hold every part of you in every part of me every day. And I shall for the rest of my life. Brian is distracting me and bed time it is. I love you my little one. -Mom

11 April 2006

I started a journal for Ari at the start of my pregnancy. My intention was to record her milestones, my feelings as she grows older, cute things she did and said. I would have given this to her at some appropriate point- her 18th birthday, the birth of her own child. These are excerpts:

To my dear child: You rest deep in my belly, an unexpected addition to my body, making every inch richly sacred. Truth be told, you are not unexpected, as my heart has felt your arrival for some time now- premonitions, yearnings, dreams. For some time now, the seed that is now you has been actively present. For some time now, perhaps in reality forever, I have loved you ever so largely and wholly. You are my coming home- coming home to my ancestors who have, over the millenniums, traveled the journey of motherhood; coming home to rediscover myself as a woman; coming home to a physical nest that I will create for our family for our lives. You have taken my body, making it sacred, magical, and creative, for you my dear child are sacred, magical, and creative. I love you, mom.

Expectations

Written 7 Febraruy 2007:

I was going to stay at home from work. I was going to breastfeed, even if it was difficult. I was going to make a mobile that would stimulate her senses. I was going to take one million photos a day of her. I was going to sing to her. I was going to dance with her in the kitchen. I was going to run with her in the stroller. I was going to be with her the first time she saw the world. I was going to be with her the first time she went outside to feel the wind. I was going to use cloth diapers so she wouldn't get rashes. I was going to make baby food from scratch. I was going to be overwhelmingly tired. I was going to nap when she napped. I was going to gaze into her eyes. I was going to cry with the difficulties of motherhood. I was going to talk with Kat, Leigh, and Cindy about their babies and hardships. I was going to bring her to Liv's for Christmas festivities. I was going to have 'family cuddle time' with her, Brian, and the dogs. I was going to read books to her before she could comprehend. I was going to shower her with love even when I was tired and frustrated. I was going to have trouble putting my career on the back burner. I was going to be constantly doing laundry. I was going to give her as much physical contact as she needed. I was going to go back to work after three months, only part time. I was going to get her girly clothes. I was going to keep writing in the journal I started for her. I was going to eat well so my milk would be nutritious. I was going to read mothering magazines. I was going to love her. I was going to have my life be her life and her life be my life. I was going to have a daughter and I was going to be a mother. I was going to have a family. I was going to receive cards and presents for her. I was going to introduce her to friends and family. I was going to have a full house of visitors cooing over her. I was going to be annoyed at Brian's mother visiting too often. I was going to have the first baby of our friends. I was going to persevere through hard times. I was going to try my best. I was going to be over-protective. I was going to bring life to the world. I was going to meet the child I have dreamt of and felt for my entire life.

But instead- I got devastation, shock, and pain. I brought death to our family. I got cards of condolences. I got a house filled with visitors in tears. I got an empty baby's room. I got a hazy image of her face. I only got to hold her lifeless body for a moment. I got to say goodbye before I said hello. I got death. I got to go back to work. I got to run, eat, and sing alone. I got to introduce no one to anyone. I got a memorial ceremony. I got a black box partially full of ashes. I got clothes, sheets, and diapers that will never be used. I got a flabby stretched out stomach with no child to show for it. I got blood on my feet and a popped eye vessel with no child to show for it. I got to sleep whenever I wanted. I got a puppy so I would have someone to nurture. I got emptiness. I got death in a place that was to bring life. I got a handful of motionless pictures. I got to kiss her once. I got flowers. I got to read aloud with no one to listen. I got to be a mother with a lost child. I got attention instead of her. I got anger, causing fights with Brian and kicking and screaming. I got my trust betrayed. I got a wide uncertain future again. I got stuck between maidenhood and motherhood. I got a star named after her- starry Ari. I got blood stained clothes. I made a Mobil for myself of butterflies, playfully swinging above my head. I got a teddy bear and blanket that were suppose to be hers. I cherish these things. I cherish her.

She was Still Born

After Ari died I remember a thought hitting me like a ghost train- like a punch in the stomach or maybe the heart. Ari died inside my body; inside my womb- my body was a place of death; a grave site. I felt like my womb was black, turned to cold stone. This place in my body was meant to create life, not take it away. Such weight I felt from this fact.

But then it was in almost an instant that I was and still am freed from this thought. Yes, Ari died inside me- but she was also created inside me and lived her entire life within me. A complete cycle of birth and death took place inside my body- a feat comparable to only Planet Earth. I remember the above quote, which was posted in my house during pregnancy, and cherish the ways that Ari experienced the delights of life through me. I played Mozart to her, even before the books say she could hear. I read my favorite books to her before bed, I sang her lullabies, I fed her nutritious, nourishing foods. We swam and floated almost daily throughout the summer. It is true also that Ari experienced the lows of life- the stress of her two parents adjusting into parenthood, exhausting days of fieldwork, and the occasional junk food. My motherhood began at conception, not at birth.

Despite the fact she never physically touched the world beyond the confines of my skin, she still came into existence, came into being, joined our family, touched and was touched by the energy of life. Arianna was declared stillborn on December 2nd, but she was still born long before.

Sidewalk

Brian had Ari's name engraved on a block outside the Art's Center in Jackson Hole and showed it to me yesterday as a surprise. I am reminded of how beautiful and meaningful her name is to me. The name Arianna has been a favorite for a while but what jumped it to the #1 slot was a children's book called "The Princess on the Nut or the Curious Courtship of the Son of the Princess on the Pea". It begins as a traditional fairy tale, until Princess Arianna takes the scene. She is adventurous, independent, modest, charismatic, and forthright; all things we wanted our little daughter to be. Ari's middle name, Lillian, is in honor of Brian's grandmother who raised him. She is loving, wise, energetic, joyful, and brave; also things we wanted our little daughter to be. Ari's second middle name is Goodale, after my family, and her last name is Bellinger, after Brian's family. Her name holds our family heritage, holds meaning, and holds honor- it is perfect for her.

The Many Forms

Sunday morning I wake up and sing myself a little song: happy mother's day to me, happy mother's day to me. Of all my 23 years celebrating this holiday, I am now on the receiving end, as well as the giving end. I don't wake to breakfast in bed made by my husband. I don't wake to marker stained hands passing me homemade cards. I don't wake to a full family cuddle. No, this is no catalogue snap shot; not the quintessential all-American holiday, at least for my family.

Today I learn that parenthood comes in many forms. For some, a young woman marries her Mexican lover with three children. For others, a man adopts the child of his x-fiancé whose father is a Panamanian living in Nicaragua. Perhaps for others still, a woman is artificially inseminated and raises her children with another woman. For me, my child dies inside me days before her expected entrance. We, and countless others, redefine motherhood daily with courage and creativity. We do so because it is our only reality. We do so because love requires this of us.

Today I learn to reshape my preconceptions of motherhood. I try to move beyond, yes still with sadness and yearning, baby clothes and the eyes of family members as they play with her. I move beyond what I didn't get and focus on what I do have. I have a child who brings beauty to the world in ways I could have never imagined. I have a loving boyfriend who shares in our parenthood. I have a child who teaches and challenges me. I have a child who brings forth the deepest of my emotions; requires the most and best of me. I cannot watch her learn to crawl, I cannot hear her giggles, I cannot smell her baby blond hair. But I can feel her. And I do. Arianna and I are growing together and bonding closer and with more clarity in tangible ways. My motherhood and Ari's daughterhood are strong enough to overcome death. Our love is great enough to wade through the shock and sorrow to refind what is still ours. We are strong enough that nothing can undue what already was. How could this be otherwise?

I do not feel sad today because I am a mother, unequivocally, and Ari is my daughter, irrevocably.

May 2nd

Brian and I have started a monthly ritual of lighting candles on the day of Arianna's birth and death. The night had settled in on May 2nd, five months after her birthday. Brian was reading in bed when I reminded him of the date. He told me he didn't want to light candles and didn't even like the idea anymore. With some disappointment, I set everything up in small sunroom/entryway with three large second-story windows. Sitting alone in the dim room, I sat and listened to the night. I covered myself in her small blankets, cuddled her teddy bear named Barley, and held her ashes. I told her how much I love and miss her and to help me and Brian get through.

The silence was soon interrupted by a mounting rainstorm that sprung to its peak intensity in no time. First, the rain drops pelted the windowpanes. Then the winds joined, making the house creek and the chimes spin. I was sitting happily, safe amidst this squall, thinking of my daughter adventuring around the universe. Just at the climax, the pressure changed and forced open the door leading to the rest of the house. With a bang against the wall, the light inundated the room, illuminating the wet windows, pointing my reflection back to me. I was pressed back in my chair from butterflies fluttering through my gut. Without a thought, I called Brian- come quickly, I yelled. In a hop, he was there to ride out the storm along with me. I passed Barley to him for support and held his hand. The storm peaked and faded, and with one last gust, petered out.

I can't help but think that Ari had a little hand in this storm- helping Brian to connect with her and bringing him and I together. Be it Ari or otherwise, that’s what it did.

Thanks Ari!

Stillborn Labor- Continued

After my sister arrived moments after birth, I asked for the midwives to bring the baby to me. Trembling on the floor, propped up on pillows in the low light, they passed my still child to me. She was a girl and we named her Arianna Lillian Bellinger Goodale. Arianna was loosely wrapped in a homemade quilt decorated with happy bright suns. It was in that one timeless moment when my hands held her tiny body that my heart literally went soaring into hers; we collided into mother-and-daughterhood. I fell more in love with Ari at that time than I could have ever imagined. I was shocked by her beauty- she was perfect and appeared only to be sleeping. She wore a small white cap and her eyes were closed. Her pudgy cheeks pushed down the corners of her mouth, which had turned deep purple. My shaky hand reached slowly up to touch her nose- so little and round. My vision blurred with tears, as I asked her to wake up- maybe it was just a dream? Just wiggle, or cry, or open your eyes, I thought. Despite my sadness then, I saw such pure beauty that only a mother can understand. I was proud of myself and Brian to have made such a precious being. I scramble to hold onto the picture in my mind's eye as it fades. I wish now in retrospect that I had held her longer- but in reality no amount of time would have satisfied my yearnings.

I laid in bed now, as friends and family came in and out. I was splattered in blood from the waist down. My sister started to clean my body with a warm sponge, but I asked her to leave the blood on my feet. I loved this blood. I felt like a warrior. It made me feel close to Ari. It was some sign of reality. This is real- see? It was all I had left- some mixture of hers and mine. I clung to it and cried as the shower water eventually washed me clean.


The next time I saw Ari, the moment had passed; she had passed. Her body faded and she looked scarily dead. Brian and I knelt next to her in the nursery to say good-bye before a man from the funeral home came to take her body away. The next day my mom, Brian, and I followed her to the funeral home, where we were able to see her body for the last time before cremation. She looked so small, as she lay on a adult sized bed in a huge empty room dressed in a knitted outfit from her great-great grandmother. I walked slowly to her and stopped suddenly when I got close enough to see the death on her face. Brian proceeded to the bed, as I sunk to my knees, weighed down by my grief. It was a physical cry that bent my forehead to the ground, made me gasp for air- it felt like puking or purging out from the deepest part of my body. I did eventually make it to her bedside. We looked at the details of her little hands and feet with purplish nails. I told her over and over how much I loved her and missed her. Her skin was paper thin and powdery from the preparations. We wrote her a little note to be tucked in her shirt for the cremation. I stayed for a long time there, not wanting to go. I just starred and cried. And cried and cried.

No Death, No Fear

Yesterday morning I sat in my small sunroom, watching the day begin, sitting in my new meditation chair, reading a book on holistic healing. I paused to look out the window at the mountains and think of Ari. I talked to her aloud- a sign that I am gradually refinding and reforming my relationship with my daughter. I told her I missed and loved her, and then I asked if some day she could tell me why she died. "It doesn't have to be today or anytime soon, but some day will you help me understand?" I just listened to the silence, not expecting a reply. My ride soon arrived and I was off to work.

That evening we had a family dinner at my brother-in-laws' parents house, Barb and Knowles. After a fresh, organic, home-cooked meal, Barb went to her bedroom to grab a book for me- No Death, No Fear: Comforting Wisdom for Life by Thich Nhat Hanh. This is perfect, I thought and later that night at home I opened the pages. Not but two pages into the text, this is what I read:

"A few weeks later the weather became warm again. As I walked in my garden I saw new buds on the japonica manifesting another generation of flowers. I asked the japonica flowers: "Are you the same as the flowers that died in the frost or are you different flowers?" The flowers replied to me: "Thay, we are not the same and we are not different. When conditions are sufficient we manifest and when conditions are not sufficient we go into hiding. It's as simple as that." / This is what the Buddha taught. When conditions are sufficient things manifest. When conditions are no longer sufficient things withdraw. They wait until the moment is right for them to manifest again. / Before giving birth to me, my mother was pregnant with another baby. She had a miscarriage, and that person wasn't born. When I was young I used to ask the question: was that my brother or was that me? Who was trying to manifest at that time? If a baby has been lost it means that conditions were not enough for him to manifest and the child has decided to withdraw in order to wait for better conditions. "I had better withdraw; I'll come back again soon, my dearest." We have to respect his or her will. If you see the world with eyes like this, you will suffer much less. Was it my brother that my mother lost? Or maybe I was about to come out but instead I said, "It isn't time yet," so I withdrew."

Well if Ari led me to this passage or if I just stumbled upon it, here is an answer. I read this passage to Brian, my boyfriend, last night. Together we realized that the insufficient conditions were not from anything we did or did not do, but rather some mix of things known and unknown to us that just were not right. It is as simple as that. I feel comforted by this and hopeful that Arianna will some day manifest again somewhere, sometime.

Thank you Ari!!

Charlotte's Grace

A particular issue of Mothering Magazine arrived in the mailbox. Usually I would stash the issues away, barely look at the cover, in hopes that some day I could read them with a child in my belly once again. Although there was nothing special about this issue, I decided to take a look. Already longing and sad from the first pages, I was surprised to recognize an image in the table of contents. The style was reminiscant of an artist whose work I had tacked around the house during my pregnancy, Durga Berhnard. Excitedly, I flipped to page 32, to see a full image of the piece...and an article about stillbirth, called Charlotte's Grace: a woman grieves the loss of her stillborn daughter, but forever celebrates the birth of her identity as a mother. Next to the article was an image of a woman nursing one child, while holding a seemingly sleeping baby close to the ground with a teardrop of milk falling.

I decided not to read the article just then but contacted the artist. I told her briefly of my experience and how her art was a part of my pregnancy and Ari's short life. Soon she responded, telling me of the Mothering Magazine article and the story behind the piece. The woman who inspired the piece lost one daughter named Julianna and then had another child named Aria. Both Durga and I were intrigued by the similarity of these names to Arianna's name. The art is titled "Song of sorrow, Song of Joy" because Julianna was the woman's song of sorrow and Aria was her song of joy.

Perhaps I am reaching, but the ever so clear message for me is this:
Because Arianna's name is a combination of Julianna and Aria, who each represent sorrow or joy, Arianna is both my song of sorrow and song of joy. This connected with me very deeply because since Ari's death, I have been working my way through my sorrow to get to my joy. I will always feel sorrow for the loss of my child, but some day I hope to feel true joy for the relationship we are still able to have in the heart and in the spirit. One night I went back to read that article and to my surprise, that mother came to this same place of finding joy in motherhood refound and redefined, but nonetheless motherhood.

This is an important read:
Issue 141 March-April 2007 Mothering Magazine: Natural Family Living
Charlotte's grace: a woman grieves the loss of her stillborn daughter, but forever celebrates the birth of her identity as a mother
http://www.thefreelibrary.com/Charlotte's+grace:+a+woman+grieves+the+loss+of+her+stillborn...-a0161022737

Miscellaneous Art

Art during pregnancy

Art after Ari Died

Stillborn Labor- Continued

We soon decided it was best to head home, back through the snowy night. The contractions in the car were the hardest- I was uncomfortable, cold, scarred, unsure, resistant. I was only 4 cm dilated- I was afraid of the long hours to come and the increasing pain. But I made a promise to myself that as soon as I entered the house, I would start over; I would embrace my contractions and let labor come to me. And this is what I did. As soon as I crossed through the doorway, in a matter of minutes, I felt like I had to push! How could this be, I asked the midwives. They said they would prepare the bed and suggested Brian and I take a hot shower. The shower was intense, steamy, timeless, spaceless. Brian held my weight as I welcomed my contractions. I threw up (mostly on Brian!), as I was warned might happen. My mind was entirely off- I thought nothing of the devastation inside me. I heard myself grunting and groaning- I knew it was soon time to push. Unknown to me, my sister came to the house to check on things. Later should told me that I sounded as if I were in orgasmic ecstasy.

I made my way from the shower to the bedside. I stood at the foot of the bed, where I rocked and swayed, up and down, following the rhythm of the contractions. Brian held my weight at the apex of the pains. Soon I lowered to the floor on all four. My body told me it was time. Brian positioned himself behind me along with Michelle to catch the baby. Kathy crouched in front of me. I pushed there in the low light of dawn at the foot of the bed under my birthing wall- I cried ancient animalistic cries. My face was pure surprise at the pain- indescribable pain. With a push, Brian held part of the baby. We waited for the next contraction to resume pushing- waited, wanting, wishing for a contraction so Brian wouldn't have to hold his lifeless child any longer. I heard two of his voices- one was strong, unwavering, encouraging; the other whimpering, in agony and sorrow- it was as if two Brians were there. In time, a contraction came, and the baby was out. They asked if I wanted to see the baby. With my forehead lowered to the ground, I shook my head, no.

I sat in a daze as the placenta was delivered. After some worry of excessive bleeding, I was instructed to stay put there on the floor, surrounded by a mixture of blood and fluids. Exhausted and in deep shock, tears and sobs cooled my hot face. Our baby was born at 6:32 on the dawn of December 2nd. The morning was still and clear- the fresh snow twinkled on the bare branches. Active labor lasted no more than 3 hours. --More to come on the following minutes and the preciousness of meeting my child--

Thank you to my Midwives

This is a copy of the thank you letter I wrote to my three midwives.

21 December 2006
Dear Michelle, Kathy, and Joe,

Over the last three weeks I have been trying to think of someway to thank you all- to show the depth of my appreciation. Words, which most days I can play and build easily with, have escaped my pages. This search has left me speechless but has shown me the enormity of my gratitude; has shown me that there simply are no words or actions to truly express my appreciation. My experience with you three could not have met my expectations more fully. From our ever so personal and caring prenatal visits to the challenging days surrounding December 2nd, you all could not have fulfilled the meaning of midwifery more fully. I imagine the moments searching for Ari’s heartbeat from your perspective, and I know this was a challenging time for each of you as well, both personally and professionally. Please know that Brian and I feel and are so proud to say that you all could not have done a better job. We fully feel that every action, every word, every touch was perfect. If I can separate the devastation of Ari’s death, labor for me was a beautiful experience, made more beautiful by the support provided by our midwives. Throughout pregnancy I was drawn to the mysticism and spirit of labor; so curious about this rites of passage; so curious about the true meaning of birth; so connected to the ancestral path of the world’s women. I feel that giving birth at home, with Brian, with women, three wise women, helped me fill my curiosity and discover the bright depths of birth. I am also so proud and honored to continue the heritage of childbirth through homebirth and midwifery, a common ground that spans human time and the human globe. The translation of the word midwife has been on my mind recently- with woman, wise woman, mother’s friend. You all, with or without certification, completely fulfill the meaning of midwife, and in my mind I see you joining the ranks, carrying the way, of all the wise women that have come before, helping woman bring life, helping women swing open the wide gates from maidenhood to motherhood.

I am so thankful to have you three be apart of my life and Arianna’s life. I thank whatever force, coincidence, or wind that brought our paths together. I thank you through and through my heart from now until forever.

Love,
Ava

Birthing Wall

This is a copy of the letter I sent to the women who helped create my Birthing Wall.

21 December 2006
Dear Road Gang Girls, Sisters, Mothers, and Elders,

I asked each of you to create a piece of birth art to be added to a birthing wall made of pictures, words, stories, quotes, and photographs that would help me remain calm, focused, and inspired during labor. My vision was to have a reminder of the powerful and magical energy that surrounds each of you to lift me up during the toughest parts of labor. When the midwives arrived at our house, and we all soon learned that our baby had died inside my womb, the toughest part of labor became something none of us had ever expected. The birthing wall took on a different role than planned- a role that has held me together during these early days of grief for the loss of our daughter, Arianna.

I assembled the birth wall on a wintery Wednesday afternoon when the house was quite and the air still. I pinned each image to an old sheet tacked to the wall across from our bed. Slowly the spaces were covered with pictures of flowers, poems from Rumi, prayers from the bible, drawings from artists, and single words of power and clarity. Throughout the days to follow, I would walk past the big colors and bold words of the wall, letting the images sink into my body. I would wake in the morning and gaze at of the passages, letting the words seep into my skin. At night I would invite the pictures into my dreams, all the while becoming ever more excited for labor to begin. And soon it did.

During a Friday evening dinner party contractions began with great welcome and anticipation. But our excitement plummeted deeply when we later learned that our baby would not be born alive. Labor continued, despite our devastation, and in the darkness of Saturday morning, I pushed on the floor at the foot of our bed under a great wall of strength that was created by each of you. Truth be told, I didn’t look once at the wall. My only focus was within my body. But as Brian caught Arianna, and the sun came up on a new day, the wall stood before me as I recovered in bed. Oddly, each picture and each word was perfectly fitting for the new circumstance. The words intended to guide me through a contraction- allowing, centering, accepting, surrendering- became words to guide me through grief. The beauty of the images gently reminded me that not all of life is perfectly cruel. The collective wall held me as I thought of the feminine strength that created it. I felt each of you there.

The wall remains nearly three weeks after the death of Arianna and stands steady at the times when I do not. The wall took on a magic and perhaps even an intellect of its own to help me when I needed it most. When I needed it most was not during the intensity of labor, for the primitive knowledge of my body took over. I didn’t need to reread the words or reexamine the pictures, for they and the power they contained, were already within me. What I thought would be the hardest pain turned out to be the easiest. When I did need the wall most was during the throws of unexpected, unexplained grief. I need the wall as time ticks by, leading me away, forcing me to move on. I need the wall as I renavigate my life. I need the wall to help me as I slowly regain my own strength and rediscover my own power. And for this I am thankful.

I love you all,
Ava

Letter to family

This is a copy of the letter I sent to my friends and family, telling them that I was pregnant.

10 May 2006
Dear Family,

I am writing you all to deliver some ‘you better sit down’ news. Good news- don’t worry. Brian and I are about three months pregnant; unplanned but welcomed! I apologize for the mass letter, but I thought it would be the best way to communicate my journey over the last month.

Brian and I went to the doctor on April 8th to take an official pregnancy test. With a smile and a handshake from the doctor, we found out the big news growing inside me, despite consistently taking birth control pills for three months. I felt happiness, confusion, shock, excitement, nervousness- although I did have some preparation for the moment, as hints from my body, dreams, and premonitions since I met Brian gave away the surprise. For the next several days, I was overwhelmed with logistics, questions, reading, daydreaming, planning. This consumed every minute of the day and night, all the while both Brian and I feeling sure we would continue through with the pregnancy.

Week two hit with some bad dreams, cold feet, second-guessing, challenging questions from loved ones, and intense confused tears. Brain and I very seriously considered having an abortion- so close that I researched my options and called doctors, while feeling unsure which direction to go. After many talks with my sister Liv, Mom, Brian, a pregnancy counselor, and myself, I was still completely at a loss as to what to do. Eventually, Brian and I decided not to talk about it to anyone for two days and then come to each other with our certain decision.

Luckily, on day two I had to go do some solo fieldwork for my job. I drove my company’s Chevy truck down Spring Gulch Road, dust clouding the views of the Teton Mountains and East Gros Ventre Butte. I found my project site and headed in to the spring-inspired cottonwood and spruce forest. Taking a break by the snowmelt filled stream, I sat on the ground and listened. Sat and listened, slowly and openly, outward and inward. All I could sense was humming, color, light, beauty, and creativity. The growth of spring was inside me and surrounding me, allowing me to feel connected, centered, rooted. The ongoing quest to drop my humanity and move in the same energy as the rest of the living world soon became momentarily real. Clarity followed in an unspoken, un-thought whitewash. The spinning mobile of thoughts fell apart and I was left to follow my heart.

To honor life and beauty, my spirit and spirituality, risk and adventure, integrity and faith, and those in my life who have died, we have decided to have this child. To do anything otherwise would deny all I hold central and principle in this life; would kill the part of my body where I feel sacred and connected. Of course, I am still nervous to enter this new chapter, but I am sure. I am excited for you all to be cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents, and great-grandparents! I do consider each of you to be my family, in the truest sense of the word and will cherish your love and support to come.

Be Well and I Love You!
Ava

Stillborn Labor

On the evening of December 2nd, 2006 labor began at a small dinner party. The conversation, laughter, and companionship helped open my body and allowed my contractions to get stronger. Around midnight, after about 4 hours of mellow contractions, my boyfriend and I decided it was time to go home. As we stepped outside and saw the snow storm, I knew tonight would be the night. With sleep clearly not an option, the contractions took over my attention and we soon called our midwives at about 1am. Over the next hour, we prepared the house, played rusted root, and called my sister and mom. Between contractions I hustled about, but during I leaned on the table, crouched on the couch, swayed in Brian's arms. The contractions became more intense, and I became more mellow. The lights dimmed, the music turned to classical, I layed in bed. I was ready. I was so deeply excited in every part of my self. I was to become a mother in only hours. My baby was to become her/his own person in only hours from now. My midwife, Michelle, and her 2 assistants arrived at the house around 2am. They set themselves up and soon took out the dopler to listened to the baby's heartbeat.

There was no heartbeat. Michelle tried and tried, searched and searched, but we heard nothing. I layed as still as I could through my contractions, hoping she could find something. I could hear Brian near my head beginning to sob as the time ticked by. I remained neutral. I felt nothing but my contractions. I was in an even plain of shock and disbelief. Michelle said in all her years of experience, she was never unable to locate the heartbeat. I tried to reposition myself, while Michelle talked to the others and phoned our backup doctor. We decided to go to the local hospital for an ultrasound to confirm what we already knew. After struggling through a cold snowy car ride, we arrived at the hospital to find out the ultrasound technitian was not on call. At this point I had 3 options: drive an hour in a snow storm to another hospital, continue labor at the local hospital, or go home and deliver our child. I struggled with the decision, not wanting to go through labor only to find my child lifeless. I wanted it done for me, to not feel a thing, I wanted drugs, I wanted to be shut off, despite my devotion to natural childbirth. I asked Michelle what she thought was happening- was there a chance? She said maybe but likely our baby had already passed. And then with one short sentence, reality came plowing over me. She said, "it looks like we are going to have to say good-bye before we were able to say hello." With those words and that truth, my tears, devistation, fear, and sorrow replaced the hope and joy I had for our baby's childhood and my own motherhood.