Home.
Atticus, Cam and I have been home for 15 days and I am feeling a level of tired I don’t think I’ve felt before. Yes, being a new momma definitely has its tiredness built into it, but this one is different. It’s a tired that you can feel literally in your bones, you know? Where you just kind of check out and let your mind and body do. Let me explain:
On December 8th, I was admitted back to Vanderbilt with these weird abdominal pains. We later found out I had a huge gallstone causing issues on top of just being generally uncomfortable because Atticus was massive. We had an 8 day hospital run. During that time, we watched my amniotic fluids yo-yo back and forth between normal and not, being prepared to deliver at any time should they drop below what Dr. Bennett was comfortable with. We decorated our hospital room with Christmas lights and had our friend Julie come and take these beautiful maternity pictures basically preparing for the long-haul until the little one decided to make his appearance. Then miraculously, my fluids were above what they needed to be and we were on our way back to our Nashville home. Cameron sacrificed even more of his sick days at school, and I felt a level of guilt I hadn’t felt in a very long time over the situation in which we found ourselves. At that point in time, there were so many people sacrificing time, energy, effort, and resources into our family that it felt like all I was doing was sitting and taking. I remember sobbing one night with Cameron because I felt like I was draining everyone around me of their energies while I just sat and waited for this boy to come. I wanted to go home, I was tired, confused, upset, and hated the fact that we were spending yet another holiday in a house that wasn’t ours. Just like today, I felt spiritually tired.
Sitting here in my house this afternoon for the first time in months is this strange mix of contentment and exhaustion because now I’m left with the memories and experiences of the past few months to unpack and work through. And y’all, let me tell you…working through trauma, no matter how big or small it feels to you is something that is truly spiritually exhausting. It’s like this strange combination where you’re so thankful for all that you went through because you know God had his hand in it, and you can physically see the outcome of that big faith you were exhausting at every turn. At the same time, you just feel tired and in need of some serious rest.
December 30, 2021 will be a day I remember for the rest of my life. Cameron and I woke up at 4:30 and took what was left of our suit cases to the car. I scrubbed my belly and thighs with a pre-surgery antiseptic, the same antiseptic that I used before our fetal surgery in October, and immediately the images and fears of that day started to flood my mind. By all intents and purposes, it was the same type of procedure but with a very different outcome. We walked into the living room of our house on Wellman Drive and told my mom the next time we’d see her, she would be a Nonna. The Nashville news was playing, Cam was drinking a coffee, mom was sitting by me on the couch. It was the day we all worked so hard to get to, but I didn’t feel the excitement I wish I had felt. Not to say I wasn’t excited to meet my boy finally, because my gosh that’s all I wanted. I wanted to see his face, touch his skin, see his eyes, hear his cry, see if he was redheaded or not…all of those things I had dreamt about for months on end. But there was still that nagging sense of October-like stress looming in the back of my mind as we told mom, “Goodbye” and headed to the car. It was like my mind just went on autopilot; underneath I was so excited for the moment we were walking into. But this moment was familiar, and the last time we went through this it was with much higher stakes.
Our last photo as just us!
God is the ultimate storywriter because when we pulled into the parking garage that morning, the same exact spot we parked our car in October was the same spot we parked in to bring Atticus into the world. Cameron and I looked at each other, smiled, and got to work to get this kid here. After we checked into the 4th floor, we were taken to our triage room where I got ready for my C-Section. Unlike October, this room was tiny, barely any space to move or really even breathe. My nurse began her pre-surgery checklist and again my brain just kind of went into autopilot mode. Another IV. Another questionnaire. Another Covid test. Another fetal doppler. However, at shift change this beautiful face popped her head into my room and said, “Surprise!” My nurse, Taylor, who was my nurse from Fetal Surgery was now my nurse for my C-Section. It was like for the first time that morning my mind and body were shifted off autopilot and back into reality. Before we knew it, we were travelling down the same hallway as October to the same surgery hall. Autopilot. I saw the same tools, monitors, and anesthesia setup. Like before in October, the same procedure for my spinal where I was sitting and talking to Taylor, this amazing person in front of me who had been my nurse and support through the whole procedure back in October, was now getting me prepared to meet my son. It ALL felt the same. That similar feeling of being guarded and ready for whatever was coming next completely took over in that operating room. Y’all, I was TIRED. I remember thinking there was something wrong with me because I wasn’t bubbling over with excitement about seeing my son finally. Instead, I was so focused on suppressing any feeling, really, that it was like soldiering through another assignment to get to the end result. Cameron came in, barely fitting into the Dad Pack they gave him for surgery, and the procedure began. Cameron talked to me, though I don’t really remember what he was saying. I was focused hard on Dr. Newton and the other healthcare workers and their conversations. There was suction, pressure, pulling, and a call for the Pediatrician. One of the nurses told Cameron to get his phone ready. There was a big pull and what felt like my lungs being able to breathe for the first time in months, then the sound of laughter. My boy was here, and as the nurses exclaimed through their giggles, “He’s huge!”
He didn’t cry, not much anyway. They dropped the curtain and finally I was able to lay eyes on the whole reason we did this in the first place. He was gray, covered in birth products, had rolls, hair, and this face that was so beautiful my mind couldn’t comprehend what was happening in that moment in time. I know he couldn’t see far, but I knew he was looking for me. After all, he and I had been through so much already.
They took him to get cleaned up. Dr. Bennett came beside my head and spoke the most beautiful words I’d heard that morning, “He’s beautiful and perfect.” Cameron went and met him first. At that moment, abdomen open and everything, if I could have sprinted to his table I would have. A few beautiful cries later, he was brought over to me and it felt like my world was finally complete. There we were, the second major abdominal surgery, the second major event in this little boy’s life, looking at each other eye to eye for the first time totally connected by something other than our body. I remember touching his little head and praying his ventricles were going to be okay. Cameron scooted him so he could touch my face and we just sat there, foreheads touching, him trying to eat my face, and all I could think to say was, “There you are. We’ve done a lot to get you here.”
Even as I’m sitting here writing this watching him on his baby monitor, I can’t help but cry through my words because it still hits so hard what the last three months were like. All I wanted was to desperately get my boy here happy, healthy, and with the best possible outcome given his diagnosis. And there he was, looking at me through newborn eyes. For 36 weeks, he had listened to my voice and heartbeat, the murmur of my organs. For 36 weeks, I worried and agonized over his care, his diagnosis, his recover and outcome. For 3 months, we had spent one day a week, two days towards the end in the fetal center having ultrasounds, tests, and conversations about his cerebellum, ventricles, and what his life would be like. For 3 months, I felt him kick, turn, and hiccup, worrying when he stopped moving if that was going to be the day we wouldn’t find a heartbeat at the clinic. But there he was, blinking slowly in the bright light of the OR, face buried in mine, breathing softly like he was trying to say, “We did it, momma. We made it.” I could have lived in that moment forever.
I so wish our time was considered normal after that, but he had tests to be run and a NICU bed waiting on him. Cameron went with him while I went to recover and will my spinal to wear off so I could run to him. Through the excitement of my son finally being here, though, was that same feeling of being spiritually guarded and tired again. We didn’t have a normal pregnancy, and now we didn’t have a normal first week with our boy. Instead of doing skin-to-skin like other moms, I was visiting my son in an open room with other parents who had the same expressions of stress on their face. When he was hungry, I wasn’t the only one feeding him. We weren’t nursing yet, and sometimes his nurses were the ones to give him his bottle while I was trying to sleep in a hospital room far away from him. I couldn’t properly cuddle my son because of the monitors and IVs hooked up to his little body. Do you know how hard it is to swaddle your child when they are hooked up to monitors? How frustrated they get when their wires get in their face, or their IV mitten accidentally smacks them in the nose? It was like we were given 2 minutes of normalcy and then it was back to the safety of being emotionally guarded. Much like before, I was tired.
It’s still difficult to talk about what the past three months have been like, especially since I’ve only been home for a week and 6 days. Trying to get back into a routine and life with a newborn after going through a season with so much difficulty is extremely difficult. Right now, I find myself looking and asking God to show me what is next in our journey. In Nashville, it was obvious what the assignment was; I needed to stay strong to get Atticus here. But now he’s here, so…what’s next? Cameron and I have talked about this extensively since being home how difficult it is to just find rest.
Sojourner is a Hebrew term that means a person or group living in a place temporarily that is not their own. In order to fully survive, that person must rely on others in that temporary community to keep existing (oxfordbibliographies.com). There have been so many Cameron and I have relied on to get us to this point. There have been so many who have rallied with us to get us to this point. As difficult as it is, though, I’ve had to accept the fact that I have been a sojourner of the community of anguish for three months. But it’s time to close that chapter and rest.
“In times of trouble, may the Lord answer your cry,
May the name of the God of Jacob keep you save from
all harm.
May he send you help from his sanctuary
and strengthen you from Jerusalem.
May he remember all your gifts
and look favorably on your burnt offerings
interlude
May he grant your heart’s desires
and make all your plans succeed
May we shout for joy when we hear of your victory
and raise a victory banner in the name of
our God.
May the Lord answer all your prayers.”
-Psalm 20: 1-5
Finding rest is the next assignment. Letting go of a hurtful chapter is healthy. Believing and hoping for a future that is bright and peaceful is difficult, but so worth it. Admitting you’re spiritually tired is okay. We are not meant to carry heavy baggage with us throughout life. If anything, it’s the opposite. In Matthew 11: 28-30, Jesus reminds us of this when he says,
“Come to me, all of you who are weary and carry heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you. Let me teach you, because I am humble and gentle at heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy to bear, and the burden I give you is light.” - Matthew 11:28-30
These past 3 months have been the most difficult months of my thirty years. I have no idea what the future holds. And while I still feel a tension in my shoulders during the day from trying to carry the weight of our fetal surgery journey on my own, I have to remind myself that Jesus promises the burden he gives us is light. I on my own do not have the strength to process what Atticus and I have been through. There has been a LOT of crying since we’ve been back where that’s all my body knows how to do to let go of trying to process this on my own. I’ve asked God to show me what the next steps are with Atticus since we have Spina Bifida clinic in a few weeks, and an unknown future ahead of us. The answer I keep getting is simple: rest. I am spiritually tired, I can feel the exhaustion deep in my body like I’ve never felt before. There are times where my brain goes back to specific moments in Nashville where I felt terrified and alone thinking about Atticus and what all of this would come to in the end. But then, I look at my son’s face. That same face that scrunches up when he’s had too much to eat. The face that smiles when he’s had a good poop. The face that gives his daddy some serious side-eye when he’s being too loud. The face that we worked so hard to get here, and I’m reminded to rest. I haven’t quite mastered how to rest just yet, but I’m working on it. It seems like so many people are having the same problem as me right now, and my invitation to you is simple today. Rest. Let the anxiety of this world go for just one moment in your day. Yes, your future is unknown to you, but it is known to God. Yes, it feels heavy right now but Jesus’ invitation is clear: my yoke is easy to bear, and the burden I give you is light. It might feel heavy right now, and you might be tired. But that is okay. Because when it gets too heavy, that’s when you need to rest and let God take some of the weight from you.
