Aziza's Birth Story

I’ve always liked school, mostly because there are a bunch of right answers, and if you learn them you get rewarded with good grades. Sometimes you even get a plaque or shout out in class or something. It is a fairly controllable system. Go to class, learn the information, study, take a test and all is well. Being the achiever that I am, I quickly got busy learning and approached Aziza’s birth a bit like a university course.

After reading several convincing blogs, watching a documentary or two, and reading a book, I was fairly convinced I had “the right answers”. In all my wisdom gleaned from my studies, I decided that natural was the only way to go. Why on earth would I want to sabotage what is natural, after all? I typed out a highly official looking birth plan that I gave to my doctor. I had done my studying, learned the material. But, birth is not a science exam, as I would soon discover.

On December 29^th, I woke up feeling a little funny. Tired, headache, nausea. I had read the books, so I knew that some of these things are normal experiences for the start of labor. Sure enough, by afternoon I started having contractions. That day, I had gone with my family to see Red Fort in Delhi, so we were in a crazy, old, congested part of the city. In the beginning, contractions were pretty easy, although the nausea was heating up. When contractions set in about 20 minutes apart, we decided we’d better catch the subway back to south Delhi so that we’d be closer to the hospital. By the time we hit the subway station, I was feeling intensely nauseated, but some 500 people (this is not a joke) were in line for tickets, so I found a little open space by the stairs and started praying that I wouldn’t throw up while I waited for Dustin to return with our ticket home. It didn’t work, and I ended up projectile vomiting down two flights of stairs. I’ve never seen a mob of people form a single file line so fast, all the while staring at the hugely pregnant foreigner. It was pretty amazing.

(My mom and I on a rickshaw when the contractions were becoming more steady)

At this point, my brother pointed out to my mother that I had, without a doubt, lost my mucous plug. He said he saw it on the stairs. Ha ha. Anyhow, on the way home I called my doctor who told me to come to the hospital ASAP for a checkup. So, around 7 pm I ended up at the hospital. They gave me a little gown and put some clean sheets on the hospital bed. Not five minutes after getting all settled in for a checkup, I began vomiting again. The little metal kidney bean bowl they gave me wasn’t quite big enough, so some new covers and a gown were required. Then, the fever and chills set in. Turns out I had the stomach flu. Awesome.

After the check up, we discovered that while I was having reasonably strong contractions I was only 1 cm dilated and 0% effaced BUT I couldn’t go home because I was vomiting uncontrollably and had to be monitored. Well, to make a rather long story shorter, 27 hours later, I was still vomiting (and having some issues at the other end), having INTENSE back labor and contractions roughly every 3 to 4 minutes, and had only progressed to 3 cms and was 50% effaced. What the heck? At this point, they decided to use Pitocin to help my body along. That made my back labor astronomically more intense. I was loosing steam, and was starting to worry that I’d be too tired to push when it came time. At this point, any normal person might start to think an epidural was a good idea… ahhh, but remember, I had a birth plan!

(Me feeling more than a little exhausted) 

My well informed, but now potentially unrealistic, self-expectations for labor were hitting me like a freight train. The countless blogs and books were running through my head reminding me of the million and ten ways in which natural was best, how I could be putting my baby at risk by doing anything “unnatural,” how natural was “normal” and basically anything else was wrong. I seriously almost had a meltdown, so my sweet husband and awesome mom prayed with me and read me scripture. In that moment, I was struck by the realization that the conversation surrounding natural child birth had really painted the picture that those who choose an epidural or any kind of medical intervention are less womanly, not natural, careless with their children, anything but brave/strong and terribly uninformed. Those voices were drowning out the reality that having an epidural while battling the stomach flu might very well be the best choice for my baby and me. After we prayed, I felt free to release my self-expectations, trust Jesus, and deliver Aziza with a little help. So, 28 hours into labor, I got the epidural. And I am so, so glad I did.

(Me in post-epidural heaven, ha ha)

Aziza was born 8 hours after getting the epidural. I pushed for the entire last hour. The effects of the epidural were much weaker at this point, and I was actually able to push really well for someone who had an epidural. But, her head would just crown and then pull back up. The doctor realized something wasn’t right and called in a few other doctors. I could hear them whispering about a potential emergency cesarean. About that time, Aziza’s heart rate was dropping, and we lost power and were unable to get her heart rate back. This is when my mom says that everyone in the room turned into “little labor and delivery ninjas”. The power was cutting on and off while my doctor did an episiotomy and two others jumped up on the table and pushed hard on my stomach as I pushed through a contraction. It was by far the most painful thing I have ever experienced… and that was with an epidural! As it turns out Aziza’s umbilical chord was short (something the ultrasound technician missed), about half the length of what it should have been. Her chord was holding her back. At some point, possibly while they were pushing on my stomach, Aziza lost her oxygen supply.

She came out. Blue. Limp. Silent. Doctors and nurses were everywhere. There was a little huddle around Aziza, and they seemed to be buzzing like bees. I kept asking if she was okay, and everyone would say, “Everything is fine.” But she wasn’t crying, people looked tense and doctors were giving terse orders. My husband’s face was white as a sheet. Never before had life seemed so delicate, so fragile to me. After what felt like an eternity, I heard Aziza sputter out a little cough. My mom held my hand and I just bawled. She was alive! Pretty soon after she coughed, they set her on my chest for about 30 seconds before whisking her away to the NICU. At this point, I just passed out. I think it was God’s grace for me. My heart couldn’t handle any more.

(My first time to hold her!)

Dustin went with Aziza to the NICU but they wouldn’t let him stay, so he paced outside of the door until he heard her cry nearly an hour after she was born. It is a cultural thing, but patients are given very little information here. So, no one told us anything. We just had to wait. Three hours after she was born, they brought her to us. She was pink everywhere except her hands and feet. We just held onto her and to each other. The whole experience was the scariest, most beautiful, overwhelming, tender, sacred time in my life. So many emotions surfaced during her birth that I couldn’t even tell the story without bawling until recently (she’s three months old now). I am utterly overcome with how much I love her.

(Sweet Aziza on her second day of life)

When we got home from the hospital, I opened my email inbox to discover that people around the globe felt led to pray for us at the exact time things were becoming a little dicey in the delivery room.  It was amazing. As I read email after email, I wept. I was just overwhelmed at how God preserved Aziza’s life. This wasn’t a science exam. I didn’t have the answers, or the power to achieve a perfect birth. But that didn’t matter, because the One who has the answers and the power was there with me, with Aziza.

Culture Shock Round 2: Going Postal

Culture shock is quite possibly the weirdest phenomenon in the world. After being here for about 9 months, I remember doing a little happy dance. I thought, “Wow, I’m really starting to feel at home here. I love it here. I’m rockin' this language and people are making sense. Things are great!” But, this came only after some real wrestling with culture mind you. There were many moments where I thought I would never, EVER understand anyone around me! But, after some time, there was a shift in my heart. I still didn’t understand everything, but I was seriously happy and adjusted. Well, at least I was adjusted to what I was experiencing on a daily basis thus far.

Alas, in the past three months or so, we’ve entered into a new phase of life here. Our first year was about learning to survive in this culture, making friends and learning language. But as we’ve transitioned into our second year here, we are starting to enter into some new roles, namely as business people and parents. Let’s just say life isn’t all biryani and roses these days!

It is crazy how the introduction of these two new roles has given us a totally different wave of culture shock woes. I’m normally pretty go with the flow, but suddenly, with the thought of bringing my sweet baby into this world, poor health care, mice infestations, crappy plumbing (pun completely intended, but that is another story altogether) and flooding haven’t seemed like only a tiny nuisance. Instead they seem huge, annoying, even scary. When we moved here, we laughed it off that it took two months to get a government approved gas connection and the irony of the post office never having stamps (seriously? This is a post office, right?) became a joke of sorts. But, now that we are in the big middle of trying to get a legal business entity up and running, it is quite possible that I will go postal on someone at a government office. So, if one day, you see on the news that some American woman totally freaked out in some Indian government office and now is in a mice infested jail cell because of her crimes, just know it is me, ha ha.

 Lately, it seems I am always fighting… for my unborn child, for our business, for my house to not fall apart or be overtaken by mice, sewage or mold. It isn’t really individuals I am fighting, although a few poor souls have certainly suffered the brunt of my frustration! It is nature, lack of education, a corrupt government, broken bureaucratic systems, poverty, prejudice towards foreigners, gender biases, barriers between communities, religious strongholds, and deficiencies in my own language skills. To be totally honest, it scares me a bit that we are only just beginning and I’m already feeling a little exhausted by it all.

So, as I see it, I have two options: insanity leading to a government office freak out and jail time, or a serious encounter with God that gives me a tenacious, fighting persistence combined with love that is far beyond what I am capable of on my own. So friends, lets pray for the second option.  

We Bought a Scooter!

When I lived in Spain for a semester during college, I used to dream of being the cool girl on the sea foam green Vespa cruising around town with my hair and trendy scarf blowing in the wind behind me. When we got married, my husband bought me a Vespa. At last, my dreams of being a European hipster  had come true. The day we got it, he took me to the empty parking lot behind the Wesley Foundation where I worked, put me on the scooter, showed me how to balance it, and told me to take her for a spin. In a matter of about twenty seconds after hitting the accelerator, I laid the Vespa over in the empty parking lot, sat down on the curb and cried. Dreams. Crushed. Ha ha! 

But, I got back in the saddle and eventually learned to drive with a moderate (or maybe mild?) amount of control. When we left the states, the hardest thing for me to sell was the scooter. I remember selling everything we owned in a garage sale, walking into our empty house and actually feeling relief. Then, I remember a few days later sobbing as my husband drove to Ralls to meet some stranger and give away our sweet sea foam green Vespa. Tragedy. 

But, life has a way of working things out. After living here for a year and relying entirely on mass transportation (which is definitely not without merit), we bought a scooter. No, it isn't a Vespa, nor is it sea foam green, and I'm not really cool, BUT my scarf does daily blow in the wind! It is amazing how much faster it is to get around on a scooter. Also, while I do miss conversations with random strangers on the way to and fro, I don't really miss imitating sardines in a really, really hot can and having someone else's sweat all over both sides of my body. So, it is definitely a practical move. But, my favorite thing about having the scooter has little to do with practicality. My favorite thing is giving little kids rides. Might sound silly, but there is not a kid in the world that doesn't love a ride on the scooter. Here, we let them stand in front and hold on to the handle bars. No, that is probably not the safest way of doing things, but they are all grins and laughs. Normally, a neighbor kid will just hop on for a block or two when we are on our way out for the day, and it is two minutes of pure, windy, horn honking joy.

Every time I watch one of them on the scooter, there is something in me that asks God for that same kind of response in my heart to life. They just hop on without worrying about where they are going and enjoy it. They enjoy the breeze, and the sound of the motor, and waving at their friends. I want to be like that too. Just enjoying the hop-on-and-go-for-a-ride-moments. 

Oh, Delhi Belly

Yesterday, we celebrated Eid, the end of Ramzan's thirty days of fasting, with all of our friends and neighbors. This picture is at a friend's house. She lives just two houses down from us and her husband was home from his work in Saudi Arabia for the festivities!

It was a lot of fun. I mean, we got to put on our "fancy" clothes, and we went to 9 different houses. And it's the biggest celebration of the year in our neighborhood, so even the crabbiest of people are in the best mood. And we ate a lot of food... apparently too much food.

Since last night at about 10 PM, my husband and I have been having something akin to the stomach bug. I guess our stomachs don't really agree with endless chicken curry and dahi vada even if our mouths do :). So, it has now been almost 24 hours of sleeping, taking rotations in the bathroom, and an all liquid diet. Not exactly what I had in mind for my Saturday. All is not lost though. My awesome husband did make us some homemade applesauce and chicken noodle soup for when we are ready to attempt consuming something that actually requires our digestive tracks' involvement.

I married him five and a half years ago, and I'm so glad I did. It's funny how I realize what a gift I have in him on the sick-in-bed days, or out-of-sorts days, or the just-plain-rotten-days. He's so stinkin' sweet to me. He's sick too, but he's brought me water, juice, and electrolyte supplements. He's held my hand and snuggled up to me in bed. He's talked with me when I start feeling lonely. He is kind. And I love him so much. In fact, I love him so much more than I ever dreamed I would or could five and half years ago. So, thanks to Dustin, my sick-in-bed day has had a sweet side too.

The Wonders of Pregnancy

Well, I've been pregnant for a full 18.5 weeks now. The first 15 weeks were pretty intense. In the beginning, the only "wonder" I experienced was wondering if it would ever end. I had no idea that the first trimester of pregnancy is about the same as having the stomach flu for three months. I mean, sure, I'd heard of morning sickness, but seriously? I threw up constantly, and everywhere. In front of the fruit bazar, in my kitchen, on my husband's back, in the morning, in my sleep, at dinner... It was a very, very long first trimester. Thankfully, somewhere around 15 weeks, my body decided to stop producing so much of whatever hormone induces constant vomiting, and viola, I feel human again! Sure, I still eat TUMS like candy, pee every ten minutes and my feet look like overstuffed sausages from all of the swelling, but it's not so bad.

Actually, I'm starting to really embrace the miracle-ness of this process. It is pretty incredible to think that a tiny little person is being formed in my body and it's crazy how much I love this little life! There are also a couple of perks to being pregnant. For instance, people now offer me the comfy chair wherever I go, my skin in gorgeous, I can blame crying, forgetfulness, and mass hysteria on hormones, I have a reasonable excuse to not share my dessert with anyone, and my husband offers to rub my feet at night. Not bad.

I'm also enjoying the rather entertaining advice that flows freely from passersby. I've learned that while I should avoid papaya, pineapples, and mangos, chai can be consumed in abundance. I've learned that I really should "stop all of that exercising."Also, soap should be avoided since it will dry out my skin. But, there are a few tips that I'm totally taking to the bank. Apparently, it is perfectly acceptable for me to wear my PJs for the entire last trimester and sleep as much as I want. Also, new moms are supposed to get a massage everyday after childbirth for at least a month to take care of loose skin. Who in their right mind wouldn't go for that? I guess there really are quite a few wonders after all. 

Fish Out of Water

So, we've been in the north now for about 9.5 months. And, just recently, I've started feeling a little better about life as I know it. You know, it's the swagger in your step that comes from paying what the vegetables are actually worth (and not 20 rupees over, ha ha) at the bazaar, or the day your favorite auto driver gives you a free ride home because you are actually friends, or the day you teach your first art class in Hindi and it is intelligible for the folks you're teaching. Wait a minute! This feels a little like life used to feel. Things are making... sense. When we first arrived, I felt like a fish who was being held by its tail, just dangling above the water level gasping for air. But lately, something changed. Whoever was holding me captive let go, and I've been swimming again.

And then we came to the south for an awesome opportunity to learn at a thriving business here in Bangalore. This, of course, is awesome, and a blessing, and really good. But, the one thing that's got me reeling is that somewhere in the transition, someone grabbed my fins again. All of a sudden, I'm out of water, again. Today, I was at business school and we worked on developing business plans. My team came up with the idea for a gym/dance studio/juice bar all-in-one place. What??? Where are we? Then we made a price sheet. My neighbors could pay rent for 6 months for the cost of a couple of ballet lessons! But, the crazy thing was this plan was doable for this place! It is another culture, another world. People make motions with their hands, and I don't know what they mean. They speak Hindi with nasalized accents if they speak Hind at all. Instead of asking about your family when you greet each other, they ask if you ate your morning meal. They deliver water in trucks and not from the handy pump outside your house. This whole process is teaching me not to take myself to seriously, again (It seems like this is a lesson I continually have to learn and relearn). And to remember that although it seems like gasping for air much of the time, if I relax and pay attention and adapt, I will swim again.

Beautiful Women: Part 1

So for the past few months, I’ve been cradling certain memories and stories in my heart. There are women and girls that I’ve met here that have touched me in such a deep place. These beautiful women have shown me what bravery, kindness, selflessness, perseverance, and love look like. Part of me has wanted to tell their stories, but I don’t want objectify them for the sake of a story. I do, however, want to share the way that God is stirring something up in my heart because they have been in my life, because they have lived. So, today, I want to tell you about Zeba.

I met Zeba when we moved here 8 months ago. I remember the very first time I saw her. When we moved in, I was (for a short time) a sort of celebrity with the neighborhood little girls. All of them came to our house everyday to ask a barrage of questions about life in America, how to make cookies, or my favorite colors and movies. While the girls piled into my kitchen to make cookies one day, Zeba stayed outside, her body flat against my house with one ear pressed to my kitchen window screen. I caught a glimpse of her hair through the window, so I invited her in. I’m pretty sure her big brown eyes doubled in size at my invitation, but she said yes. Zeba was a short and stout seven year old. She was calm, quiet, and I remember how quickly she worked rolling lumps of cookie dough between her hands and arranging them neatly on the cookie sheet.

After our first meeting, I learned that Zeba’s mother worked as a maid for my next-door neighbor. Zeba was the oldest of her children, so early in the morning before school, Zeba came to work with her to learn the tricks of the trade. Then, after school she would return to my neighbor’s house to work. Sometimes, if the housework was slow, Zeba came outside to play with the other girls for an hour or two. I don’t know if I’m supposed to say things like this, but Zeba quickly became my favorite. She was just so kind. I would sometimes see the girls outside playing. If one fell down, Zeba would console her. If one was rude, Zeba would quickly try to resolve the conflict between them. If one was crying, Zeba wiped their tears. She had this natural way of nurturing everyone. The other girls were pretty mean to her. When no one was around she was a fine playmate, but when there were others to choose from, Zeba quickly became an outsider and the butt of all their jokes. She tolerated it beautifully. And somehow, she always smiled and laughed.

I couldn’t help myself. I found myself sneakily giving her extra cookies or saving some of our American food to let her taste. When the other kids weren’t around and she was outside doing work, I’d sit with her and try to tell stories with my bad grammar and limited vocabulary. When she was too busy and couldn’t come out, I’d wink or wave at her from my doorway. She and I would sit and laugh and make faces at each other. One day, Zeba didn’t come out at all. It was around Bakra Eid, so I didn’t think much about it. I figured the busyness of the holiday meant extra work. But, then two or three days passed and I still hadn’t seen her. I asked my husband about her. He told me he learned from the neighbors days before that Zeba had been sold to a family in Delhi as a house maid. She wouldn’t be going to go to school anymore, but would take on full time work for our neighbor’s relative. He didn’t have the heart to tell me sooner.

I have seldom felt the way I did at that moment. It was like all of my internal organs moved from my abdomen to my feet. My heart raced, my face flushed, and tears came flowing. I still miss her. I find myself praying for her often. Every now and again, I still cry for her. When I see her mom, I always ask how Zeba is. She says she hasn’t gotten to talk to her much. At first, I was angry. And then I was ashamed that I didn’t see it coming and hadn’t tried to do something to help her before she was sold. But then, finally, I found myself in surrender to the Lord, just trusting Him to hold on to this sweet, innocent one. And I sense Him leading me to continue to walk with my eyes and heart open for little ones like Zeba. I may have only given her extra cookies, but maybe by God’s grace, in the future I can offer another little girl something more.