A Requited Reality

Planning to have a baby and then experiencing the scheduled plan is surreal.

March 29th, 2019

Friday morning arrived and presented itself in a calm manner. Benson’s mom (Heidi), my Mom + Dad, Benson & I were gathered together sharing obscure stories and life experiences. When I checked my phone, I had a missed call & voicemail from the hospital. Classic. “Jade, this is Leslie from labor and delivery. We are wondering if you want to have your baby today!? Call us back—we're ready for you to come in for your scheduled induction. Thank you, bye…”

We all laughed at the happenstance and put everything together really fast. I was anxious to leave! Heidi snapped a picture of Bens & me in the front yard and then we drove to the hospital in separate cars. On the way, B and I listened to our fave two Sleeping At Last songs, Life & Light. Those were the songs we dedicated to our baby girl. The whole city seemed calm. Traffic was minimal and the morning was beautiful.

We pulled in to the hospital and headed for Labor & Delivery; it felt very quiet. They admitted me into room #204 and had me dress down in the delivery robe. Sneaking glances at Benson made my heart pump strong and fast—we were becoming parents all too soon. The grammas arrived with breakfast and had the pleasure of seeing me poked and prodded for IV placement. That wasn’t fun. The first line failed in my right hand, and after several attempts to find another spot they ended up putting the IV in through what felt like my wrist bone! The use of my left arm was compromised for the remainder of the day. 😅 Pearl was my nurse, and she entertained us with crazy stories from the night before, previous experiences she’d had in 21 years with Labor & Delivery, and travel ideas. 😏 As the Pitocin set in, the contractions got more intense and less forgiving. Every time I had to pee, I would have to wheel the IV cart (dubbed as “Bob”) into the bathroom with me. Being pumped with fluids makes your bladder fuller quicker. Not to mention, eating is not allowed so you get filled up on liquids. I did, however, have my trusty rainbow nerds handy, as they let me eat candy no problem. 😜

Eventually, I opted to have the Epidural. They had been trying to talk me into getting one, but I kept saying no at the time. I wanted to feel what it was like to be in labor! I didn’t feel the full depth and breadth of the intense labor that consumes a mother moments before delivering her baby, but I got the glimpse I wanted. I figured since labor would be underway for several more hours at least, I might as well reap the most benefit from this spinal block by getting it now. The anesthesiologist waltzed in and surprised us all with his demeanor—he seemed like a typical Dixie college kid and way too young to have been doing this very long! But evidently he’d been in practice several years already. He started the process and IT WAS WILD. I felt every centimeter traveled through my spine, and contractions felt obsolete to these shocking sensations ripping their way through my back, hips, and legs. I was glad Benson was talking and had the doctor’s attention, because I wasn’t able to speak at all. The anesthesiologist made Benson stand in front of me and “be a good husband” rather than watch the insertion of the epidural. I was thankful for that. I manhandled his hands which he’d offered for me to squeeze. Finally, when the needle was placed and drugs were burning their way through my body, the lackadaisical doctor went on his way. Thirty minutes passed and I was still feeling every sensation of the contractions at full intensity. My mom noticed and asked if she could tell someone. I didn’t want her to, because I knew it would mean bringing the doctor back and enduring a similar experience yet another time. She thought maybe they would just up the flow of the epidural to increase numbness. When he came back he checked everything out. “Hm, looks like we’ll have to try placing it again.”

Instant tears. I didn’t face him and wanted to hide my apprehension as much as possible. Mom looked at me with an “oops, sorry” face and we set in for Epidural vs. Jade, round 2. I’d crown the epidural as winning both rounds, for different reasons. When it set in and began doing its job properly, it was wonderful! I was much more pleasant to be around. We were in the room joking and laughing. By 6, I had dilated to a 5-6. Pearl left around this time and wished me well with delivery. In came Abby. She was recently back from maternity leave herself, and with her experience brought a lot of new ideas. She moved me semi-frequently, trying to encourage my body to naturally labor baby down past the pelvic bone before having me start pushing. A few hours later (8:30), I was at a 10. It was time to push. Having never given birth before, I didn’t know what to expect. The bottom half of my body was heavy under the influence of the epidural, and not having the sensation to push was a strange phenomenon. (I’d been binge-watching Call the Midwife for the past few months, and sort of used it as my expectations for birth. 😅) After 30-40 minutes of pushing, baby girl began crowning. I remember this moment because my mom got SO ecstatic and had this look of “She’s almost here!!”

Suddenly, it got quieter and a slew of nurses began silently storming the room. I was surrounded by people who looked concerned, but wouldn’t tell us why, exactly. They kept telling me not to worry & to be calm and keep breathing. An oxygen mask was placed on my face. While I felt calm, I was confused why nobody was talking anymore. Mom kept asking them questions and received silence in response. It was a bizarre atmosphere. They then decided to wheel me away to the OR “just in case.” I began praying that the perceived problem was a fluke and that we would be able to continue laboring & deliver the baby. On our way over, the people pushing me tried to walk-run and tripped over my IV 3 or 4 times. I held tight to my left hand / intravenous setup as to avoid repeated yanking on the rig. Family wasn’t allowed past a certain point, so my mom wished me luck as I was whisked away from her sight.

Only Benson could come into the room with us, and he showed up gowned and excited (med school students 🙄😂). It was now that they decided it was time to inform my doctor that I was ready for her. 🤦🏼‍♀️ When we settled into the operating room, there was a relief that settled over the staff, as they re-monitored baby’s heartbeat and it came through strong and fast. Evidently, they had been worried because it seemed baby was in distress via her heart rate slowing to 90. With this newfound relief (and what I felt was an answer to prayer), they readied for my doctor to arrive and had me sign some precautionary forms—giving my permission to surgically remove baby in case of emergency. (Who wouldn’t sign that?!) When my doctor arrived, she seemed calm and confident. They scooted me down on the surgical table into a position where I could better push. We tried pushing for a few contraction cycles, and then tried using a suction cup (basically a baby plunger) to help pull baby out. Everybody kept saying “Good job mama! You’re doing great. Good push!” Etc, etc. And then my doc said, “All right. Good job Jade! It looks like we’ll have to do a C-section.”

I was FLOORED.

What?!? How did that make sense? I didn’t feel the sense of urgency everyone around me was insisting existed. I tried to protest, asking if we could try pushing for just a little longer. No response from the peanut gallery. I asked again. And Benson asked again. And finally, someone behind me offered this comment, “It will be better for baby.” Okay, that’s good. But I’m still confused! Nobody was really telling me what was happening.

Liquid iodine poured over me in massive quantities, spilling off the table and puddling on the floor. I felt them pinching me. Didn’t think that was a good sign, so I spoke up. They indicated that it was probably just pressure I was feeling. I told them I could feel the actual pinch, not just pressure. Apparently, that meant my epidural wasn’t fully working. They then asked Benson to leave, as they were going to put me under general anesthesia. He left with a kiss, and in that moment, I had never felt more alone.

I heard the conversations & chaos happening around me, but life was evaporating in a blur all around me. Streams of tears made their way down my face, as I laid awkwardly on the table awaiting a decision that didn't feel like my own. Someone mentioned the possibility of not putting me under, as it is generally better for the mom & baby. The consensus was for me to stay awake. So, instead of anesthesia, I was pumped with pain meds to help boost the numbness and feigned immunity to surgery’s strains. Nausea overwhelmed me, and I did everything in my power to suppress my upset stomach, knowing if I made sudden movements it could affect the surgery. The (newly on-call) anesthesiologist did everything in his power to soothe my nausea, and he was one of the only people in the room who helped me not feel so alone through this whirlwind experience.

And then, that's when I felt it. (This next passage is not for the fainthearted.) Starting on my left side: a sharp, unforgiving kind of pain. I felt the blade enter my skin and muscle and glide effortlessly across the underside of my bump. A nurse had offered a hand for me to hold, and I'm sure she regretted it as I screamed out and clenched her hand with every energy I had left. The excruciating pain that pulsed through my body sent a desperate panic through my soul. That sensation, emotion, and desperateness is not something I will forget.

Luckily, the medication began to work and muddied the remainder of my painful memory. I felt tugging and immense amounts of pressure as the medical team began excavating my baby girl from my body. Because she had dropped below the pelvic floor and had been crowning, she was almost completely suctioned within my body. It took a lot of force to pull her from me. When they finally removed her, a nurse swiftly took her from the room. As I looked over to try and see my babe, the only thing I saw was a purple leg & foot dangling from the arms of a scrub nurse. Just like that, she was gone. And I really was alone, in a room full of people.

They began the process of suturing me up, and my loneliness felt eternal. So many thoughts raided my mind, making the time stretch beyond reality... What just happened? Is baby girl okay? I am alone. The number of children I can have now is limited. I can never give birth "traditionally". I'll be forced to have C-section with every future kid. It's freezing in here. I think I'm going to puke. Where is my baby? How can they be having a normal conversation right now? Where is Benson? I can't talk. IS MY BABY OKAY?! My teeth are chattering. I can't do this. All I wanted was the feeling of heaven in the room as my baby was born. I didn't feel it. I feel angry and agitated. Is something wrong with me? Crap. Is something wrong with her? is she okay? WHERE IS EVERYONE????

Finally, Benson emerged from behind me with a little bundle in his arms. He was so happy. I was so not. I really wasn't okay. He brought her over to me, and said, "Look at your beautiful baby girl." I turned my head to the left and craned my neck backwards (because I was still scooted halfway down the table) and just wept. Benson brought her as close as possible and cried with me. She was beautiful. Eyes wide open, she was watching everyone around her. She brought with her a sense of peace. Amid all of my travail and confusion and helplessness and hopelessness, she brought light. She brought life. She brought love.

She was fine. Everything checked out on the APGAR and the NICU team cleared her immediately. She was safe.

It was an hour before I actually got to hold her. Finally stitched up, I was wheeled back into #204 where our families made the room feel like a beehive. Phones were recording every move lil' baby girl was making, conversations were loud, and everyone turned to see my entrance. There was so much going on. All the while I was feeling traumatized, gypped, and drugged. Usually the bustle of family life makes me smile, but when I saw everyone I just cried more. Thankfully, my nurse took control and respectfully instructed everybody except mamas to leave. They asked if I wanted to hold her. At this point in time, speaking was extremely difficult and all I could do was nod.

When they gave her to me the world stopped.

I had been shaking uncontrollably since the drugs were administered through my IV, and holding my baby helped reduce the quivering not only in my body, but in my soul. She helped quiet my rampant, anxious thoughts.

It wasn't until a few days later that we named our beloved daughter, Evangeline Hart Gunther. We hadn't officially decided until then, but our hearts kind of knew it all along. She is the sparkle in our eyes, the light in our world, our own sort of guiding star! She helps us hope!

Birthing my daughter wasn't anything I was expecting it to be. I still have some healing to do mentally as a result, even 8 months later. But I am grateful we both made it. We're here, we're happy, and we're healthy (now). Recuperating after serious surgery like a C-section is freakin' HARD! You hear about people having C-sections, and just kind of shrug it off until you fully know and appreciate what that means. Kudos to EVERY MOM for birthing kids in whatever way they do, but my heart goes out to every mom figuring out life post-C-section! Especially if they have older kids, too. Holy cow. It ain't no walk in the park. It's a freakin' fight. Things you should be able to do normally become impossible tasks you hesitate to do because it will tweak the sutures, pull the muscles, etc. etc. Surgery is brutal.

I'll dive into Postpartum later, but becoming a mom is a tricky process! It was crazy for me. I've learned a lot by going in more or less "blind". If I could re-do it, I would! hahaha. Maybe it would end the same, but it would be worth trying to avoid. Next time around, I'll be better equipped to help create the atmosphere / experience I so desperately long for. If it's in the cards, I would love to do a VBAC. And if every kid results in an emergency C, at least I've been there before.

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I want to be blanketed by an endless canopy of stars, enveloped by the wisdom of the universe and its ever-swirling galaxies. I want to spend a sleepless night discovering and rediscovering constellations and the man in the moon. I want to abandon the world and its trivial, superficial cares and just be. Life isn't perfect; it wasn't meant to be. Life is a collection of the ups and downs, a heartbeat pattern. The low times prove that you're alive. It is the flatline that is worrisome. The stars are billions of years old. They have watched us spin around in circles, always revolving around the sun. They have seen wars, love, hate, peace. They have witnessed the human race progress, digress, and stand still--it is in those still moments, surrounded by the tranquility of silence and stars, that we realize life is more than us. That we grow outside of ourselves. It is then when we become inspired. The night sky is a dark canvas of knowledge speckled with the experiences and light of the stars. So connect the dots. What is it that you see?

It's true that everybody tries to put their best foot forward. We try to show the best parts of ourselves by nature. We don't want people to know that we are human make mistakes. We're guarded, hiding the undesirable traits and facts about ourselves. But I think the most beautiful parts of us are the scars, the pains, the dark places. In all reality, it is these things that define who we are, not the flawless masks we present to society. It's the scars that tell the stories. The dark times and the pains we've endured are, in essence, the definition of us. They prove that we are growing and learning; they show that we can heal. You never know who somebody is until you have shared who you are with them. Very choice people know the trials you're enduring and it is them who are the closest to you. We've been injured, we have scars. And we hide them from the world, convincing others that we are a flurry of wonder when all the while we are really just trying to prove to ourselves that we are worth it. We are harsh on our choices and personalities and flaws. We must learn to love the scars and the change we've encountered. And we have to love even the scary parts of others because we are all survivors, everyday. And how will somebody love all of us if we condemn some parts of them? We make mistakes, but when we learn from them they can flourish into something beautiful.

Being alone is empowering; the stillness of the air allows peace of thought and deep personal understanding. It fills the crevices of our broken soul with a painfully soothing remedy: time. But you can't live alone forever. You, at one point or another, have to depend on somebody else for survival. No matter how self-sufficient we think we have become, we owe the world we have to our God who gave us life. He blesses and prospers us in ways we cannot fully recognize. For are we not all beggars? He carries us through those trials we fear we cannot surpass and, in order to strengthen us, he even pushes us a little farther than we are stubbornly willing to go. No matter how we may try to repay our Father in heaven for the blessings he bestows upon us, he turns around and blesses us again tenfold. We are forever indebted to him. If we, imperfect beggars before the mighty God, can become heirs to his kingdom, why shouldn't somebody else? It's time for the hopeful message of the gospel to reach those who may feel frozen in time and all alone. I'm here to tell you that you are never alone and Christ is silently enduring every pain, sorrow, and sickness that befalls you upon this lonely journey on earth, whether you realize it or not. You are important. You are more important than you realize.

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The Secret was a study performed in an effort to prove the theory that positive thinking leads to success. Many live the Secret and swear by its results. Although uplifting thoughts are powerful, action is essential to the counsel given concerning family history--without it, nothing gets done.

Incentive: You guys are all able to put out this candle. The power of positive thinking will be on our side here. What you need to do is work together, all of you have to countdown and think as hard as you can that the candle will go out and if you plan it out well enough, you'll have a chance to put out the flame. After lighting the candle, convince everyone to be absolutely silent and, on the count of three, to speak in their minds the words "flame, go out." The trick is to emphasize the power of positive thinking. After about 10 seconds of the fire still burning, pinch it out and deliver the following thought: no amount of positive thinking was EVER going to extinguish that candle. What was required to put out the candle was work, the action of pinching out the flame. When we receive instruction and counsel for us to learn something, we have to act. No amount of positive thinking is EVER going to effect a change on the physical world around us if we don't act on those thoughts.

We are told regularly how important family history work is, and many times this topic has been discussed in this class. A lot of times we hear what people are saying, but we don’t listen. It’s easy to avoid the monotonous repetition of the counsel to “do family history work!” and justify why we aren't involved in it. The most beneficial thing we can do for ourselves is to do something, regardless of how in-depth it is.

After class one day, I had the strongest impression to record my family’s stories. I called my grandparents and set up a time to meet with them and write their stories into the FamilySearch website. While it was a bit more difficult than anticipated, the time I was able to spend with them and the memories that are recorded for generations to come are well worth it.

One of the largest mantras in this class was the theme of stories. We have the resources necessary to complete family history, and the history of our families begins with stories.

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I didn't really know what to expect prior to attending BYU. I had heard college was different, better even, than high school, but nobody explained to me how it differed. I had been vaguely enlightened by the comment that for every hour of class attended, you would have 2+ hours of homework. That was daunting. Still, I scheduled six classes and hoped for the best.

I feel like, in this moment, I am a sinner in a confession. My (imaginary) blog readers are my pastor equivalent. And I have a lot to confess concerning the reality of my university experience.

1. College actually feels almost identical to high school except for the fact that half the students are married and the other half are scouting out potential future spouses. Ugh.

2. I got really lucky this semester because my workload isn't an overload.

3. LearningSuite is frustrating, but without it I would be blindsided on MANY assignments.

4. There is a class I should be close to failing, but since the average student scores a low C grade, the class I should be most worried about seems to be a class I will be able to pass. #CurvesSaveYou

5. People hardly ever look--let alone smile--at you. That is probably one of my biggest pet peeves about the college atmosphere. Honestly, just because I made eye contact with you doesn't mean that I want to have your children. Simmer down, everybody.

6. At any given moment you could meet somebody who changes the course of your existence. Sounds cliche, but it's true. Merely taking a different route, offering a hello to the person sitting beside you in class, or attending an irregular event on campus can have a long-standing effect on your experience.

7. Being out on your own elicits extraordinary thoughts and ideals in everyday life. I've had a lot of time to walk and ponder and I've learned just how delicately balanced the reality of our lives are.

8. Grades are important, but just because you bomb a test doesn't mean you fail; failure is deemed only by refusing to gain knowledge. The true measure of success is proven when you apply lectures to your everyday life. If you feel educated, you have not failed.

9. Roommates are like family: be sure you make an effort to like them.

10. When classes are 50 minutes long, it is incredibly easy to develop a shortened attention span.

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I had a lot of questions going into this October 2014's General Conference, some crucial to be answered and others...not so much. I've had a lot of people tell me to write down all of my questions before Conference and pray about receiving an answer through the sessions. This was the first time I had done this. While the speakers addressed some of the larger questions, I didn't quite feel like I grasped a full contextual answer for all of them. Now, of course, all of the sessions were wonderful and I learned a lot from each, but I was getting hung up on my questions. Then came along Neil L. Anderson Saturday Afternoon to drive a point home: I can receive answers in many ways than just one. During his address I was taught a lot by him, but even more so by the spirit, which I think is the case nine times out of ten. Neil L. Anderson successfully evokes the presence of the Holy Ghost, surprisingly, by logically approaching the topic of receiving answers.

Elder Anderson spoke of the controversy surrounding Joseph Smith and his ministry. There are many whose testimonies concerning Joseph aren't rock solid and are easily swayed by outside sources whose information and perception of certain aspects are likely skewed. Elder Anderson said that, as a church who began from asking questions, we welcome honest and genuine questions! (Frankly, I have many doctrinal questions that I'm not sure can be answered to me anytime soon, but I tend to--as President Uchtdorf said--doubt my doubts before I doubt my faith.) If we seek answers with faith and real intent, God will provide answers. He always does! One of my favorite quotes was the following: "Spiritual questions deserve spiritual answers provided by God." He listens to us and responds. However, the answer is dependent on God's timing and sometimes it's not necessarily what we're expecting or want to hear.

I learned that just because everyone else is finding answers one way, that way might not be the best way for me to find mine. In order for me to fully understand certain concepts and to ensure that the major (and minor!) decisions I am making in my life are compatible with God's plan, I have to put forth more effort than I am currently. I can't just write down questions and expect all of them to be handed to me on a silver platter--though sometimes God mercifully hands us blessings whether we expect them or not.

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