My VBAC: The Birth Story of Emmett Jonathan Blake Miller

PREGNANCY

When I found out we were expecting baby#2 in July of 2015, I took a deep, excited, terrified breath and said, "Ok. So I'm pregnant. Now what?"

This wasn't exactly planned. Given how difficult it was for us to conceive Evie, we weren't expecting another little bundle for a while. I had mixed emotions. Of course I was thrilled, but there were still so many questions left from my birth experience with Evie that I hadn't yet worked through. Was I even capable of going into labor on my own? Could I really handle the pains of labor and delivery without medication? Did I really want to try? Did I want to face the risks of having a baby outside of the hospital? Did I want to face the lack of control and the risks of a repeat c-section if I had a baby inside of the hospital?

Since I didn't really have a regular OB at the time, I made an appointment with Dr. Proverbs, who did my c-section with Evie, to establish prenatal care. We found out via ultrasound that I was about 7 weeks along, due April 17, 2016, and everything looked healthy and normal. I desperately wanted to attempt a VBAC (vaginal birth after cesarean), so I asked Dr. Proverbs if she would be willing to support that. Her response was disheartening at best. She took a deep breath and said, "well...you can try. But I'd really like you to be monitored from the first contraction all the way through delivery." 

Well, that sounds awful.

I wanted to do more than just TRY; and I certainly needed a team of people who would support my decisions and not just wait around for me to fail. I left her office with pamphlets on the risks of uterine rupture, the dangers of "advanced maternal age," birth defects, genetic tests. . . and a lot of question marks. Based on my experience with Evie, I wasn't really keen on laboring in the hospital, but I also decided long ago I would never go back to New Birth Company. So now what?

I looked into the possibility of a home birth, initially out of morbid curiosity. I had a few friends that had done it, but could I? The more I researched, the better I felt about having this baby at home. I went from completely discouraged to downright excited, so I started interviewing home birth midwives in my area. It was through a string of lucky coincidences that I was given the name and contact information of Nicole Greene. I interviewed her and instantly liked her. She was relaxed and encouraging and believed in informed consent instead of forced policies and procedures. When she told me that if everything looked healthy, she would let me carry this baby until 43 weeks, I was absolutely sure she was the one I wanted on my side. I hired her almost immediately. I also hired my doula, Stefanie Olson, from Evie's birth. My birth team was set, and I felt great. I still had so many buried feelings from my c-section, but through lots and lots and LOTS of talking with Nicole and Stefanie over the course of my pregnancy, I reached a point of peace with that experience and allowed myself the possibility that I just might be able to birth a baby. On my own. Without drugs or interventions. In my own home. I felt kind of awesome.

Despite the progress I had made mentally, the question marks would continue to creep up as my due date came...and went. Flashbacks from Evie's birth popped up and I would send a panicked text to Nicole, who assured me that I still had lots of time to go into labor on my own. So, I waited and tried not to panic.

At a day shy of 41 weeks, Mom and I made birth affirmation posters in an effort to prepare my mind for labor. They were up on the wall and proved to be monumental help over the course of the next several days.

            

     




BIRTH

I started having mild contractions while at my parents house for dinner on the evening of Sunday, April 24th that were fifteen minutes apart, but very mild. They continued through a good portion of the night, coming every 5 to 7 minutes, but would stop by morning. I was almost sure baby Emmett would be coming in the next day or two, especially after (TMI ALERT) the "bloody show" appeared on Monday morning. That was definitely a new experience for me...

That pattern of contractions continued day after day for the next 6 days, most often through the night, and would stop after a few hours. It was an emotional week for me. The start/stop, will I?/won't I? of it all was stressful at best. Somedays I worried that my "deadline" would come and an induction would be necessary; other days I felt absolutely confident and downright cheerful. It was infuriating.

I had a major breakdown on Thursday night. It was rainy and depressing weather and I felt an overwhelming feeling of dread. It was very confusing. I was suddenly second-guessing my decision to birth at home. Was this feeling an impression that what I was about to embark on was the wrong decision? How could something that I felt so absolutely positive about just days ago be such a strong source of worry for me now? Jonny offered me a beautiful Priesthood blessing and I felt better. After discussing things with a friend, I came to the realization that my worry was really surrounding my daughter. Would she be OK without me for a couple of days? How was this new baby going to change our family dynamic? How was her little heart going to take the big changes coming? The tears flowed, and it was very cleansing. I moved through those feelings and felt ready and confident once again.

That is, until Friday morning. . . Nicole said that she would be willing to come do a membrane sweep Friday evening to help things along after I sent her yet another panicky text message. Meanwhile I was doing everything I could think of to get labor going, to no avail. I felt an emotional block and knew that that might be the reason that labor hadn't started. Friday morning I felt very strongly that a membrane sweep wasn't something I wanted to do just yet, so we put it off until Monday. On Saturday morning I called a friend of mine who walked me through an energy release exercise. What followed was an incredibly personal and spiritual experience and it was exactly what I needed to feel absolutely ready to go into labor.

That Sunday, May 1st, I woke up after a night of contractions that varied in timing, but didn't let up. I had to stand and sway through contractions, so I sent Jonny and Evie off to church while I stayed home to walk around the neighborhood, clean out Evie's room, and try whatever I could to keep the contractions coming. By 5pm, things hadn't let up, so I sent a text to my mom to let her know I wouldn't be coming to their house for dinner. I had no desire to sit in a car through these contractions. At 6pm, Mom and Dad brought dinner over to us. I had to stand and lean on Jonny through contractions, and they were getting harder to talk through. I called my doula, Stefanie, at 7:30pm. She told me to take a shower, take a walk, and call her in an hour or when I felt like I needed help to get through labor. We knew this was it, so we sent Evie home with Mom and Dad to spend the night.

Jonny and I went upstairs, took a shower, changed into fresh clothes and kept working through my contractions. I didn't want to call Stefanie too soon and risk her not being able to stay through my whole labor (as is what happened with Evie's birth). Jonny and I had a pretty good system going anyway. I was pretty sure we were OK for now.

At around 9:30pm, Jonny and I made our way downstairs where we used the TENS unit to help distract from the ever-increasing intensity of my contractions. They were steadily coming every four minutes now and I was starting to make the low, primal moans that come with active labor. I tried to keep everything relaxed and open and let Emmett move down in preparation for birth.

Stefanie arrived a little after 10:30pm and began setting up the birth tub in between applying counter-pressure on my back and reminding me to keep a low voice during contractions, which were coming every one or two minutes now. I stopped using my contractions app by this point because there wasn't enough time to push the "start" button before the intensity took all of my concentration. I knew things were getting serious. During my labor with Evie, I found the balance ball very helpful. This time around, sitting down wasn't an option because of discomfort, so I labored standing up the whole time. I tried kneeling on the couch facing the wall to relieve some stress on my feet and legs, but found that to be very uncomfortable, so I swayed and moaned and "bobbled" my head through each contraction, trying to keep my face and body as relaxed as possible. I drew some strength from the posters on the walls, but mostly kept my eyes closed. Stefanie observed me for about 30 minutes before she recommended we call Nicole. Stefanie later admitted to me that she felt, based on how I was acting between contractions, that we had several hours left until it would be time to push, but the fact that they were coming every minute or so told her that we needed our midwife.

Nicole arrived around 12:30am and helped to finish filling the tub. I was getting very anxious to get in that warm water and let it help me with the ever-worsening contractions. When it was FINALLY ready, I got in the tub and knelt down to lean against the side. Jonny pulled up the balance ball and sat in front of me to help me focus. The water didn't offer the comfort I had expected. Less than a minute after I got in, I started shaking and had a contraction that was worse than anything I had experienced previously. I had hit transition and it was very intense. I was literally clawing at Jonny now, barely able to concentrate and keep on top of the pain. At the end of the second contraction in the tub, I felt my body begin to push, and I started to panic. Instantly I regretted this decision to labor naturally. This was PAINFUL. This was NOT the peaceful, quiet experience I had imagined it would be. I was afraid. I was afraid of the "ring of fire", I was afraid of tearing, I was afraid of pushing. I had never done this part before and I felt so unprepared. I started breathing irregularly and had to be reminded to take deep breaths. There was a 2 or 3 minute gap between one of the contractions (thank goodness!) that provided a small window of time to rest between pushes. When the next contraction came, Nicole told me to reach down and see if I could feel the baby's head crowning. Fear took over and I couldn't bring myself to do it. It was all happening so fast. It was nothing like all the birth videos on YouTube I had been watching in preparation for this. I started being very vocal, screaming that it hurt too much and I couldn't do it. Something else was taking over birthing this baby, because my head was somewhere else entirely. It was very strange and very overwhelming.

During the next push, I could feel Emmett's head emerging and I could hear Nicole telling me to slow down and do "little grunt pushes." I took a deep breath and took control again. The fear was vanishing a little bit at a time. One last push and Emmett was born into Jonny's arms (truthfully, I can't recall when Jonny moved from the balance ball in front of me to the back of the tub to catch the baby...). Instantly, the pain was gone and everything was quiet. It was probably the most peaceful feeling of relief I have ever experienced. I wanted to hang onto that feeling for as long as I could.

Emmett and I hung out in the tub for about 20 minutes until things got a little chilly. I could feel a twinge of pain and asked Nicole if I tore. She nodded and told me I likely did. We moved to the couch in the living room where I delivered the placenta and Jonny cut the cord (which, by the way, was one of the longest cords my midwife had ever seen. Quite the proud moment).

Nicole went about cleaning up the tub and the birth space while the rest of us hung out in the living room to chat. Stefanie left around 2:30am. Nicole checked me for tears and found I had torn in two places. The first was a labial tear that could not be repaired and the second was a perineal tear that Nicole wanted to stitch, but I begged her not to. She told me that if I kept my knees together and took it easy, she'd let me off the hook. Next she measured and weighed Emmett. We were all shocked when he weighed in at 10lb 2oz, 21 inches long. I started to feel like Superwoman.

This was an experience that, initially, I admit I wasn't sure I would ever want to repeat. Giving birth was not at all what I had envisioned. It was HARD. It was painful. And for me, it was scary. Afterwards, though, was everything I wanted. No nurses coming in every two hours to push on my stomach, no one bugging me about bathing the baby, I never had to leave my house, I never got separated from my new baby. It was absolutely perfect and peaceful. In addition, I have gained a confidence I never thought I would have. I was so discouraged after my c-section. Having this experience has been vindicating and incredibly freeing. I found out what I was really capable of. I will always be grateful for my my incredible birth team. They were, and are, everything to me. I can definitively say that I would do this all again in a heartbeat.

Below are some pretty raw pictures of Emmett's birth. My doula was kind enough to snap a few pictures for me and I'm so grateful to have them. I hesitated sharing them because it is such a personal (and somewhat revealing) experience, but this was such a deeply empowering moment in my life. I really wanted to share that with my friends.

Emmett Jonathan Blake Miller
May 2, 2016
10lb 2oz, 21"

Happy Frustrations: The Birth Story of Genevieve Noelle Alda Miller

Anyone who knows me at all knows I'm a wee bit granola. Anything worth doing should be done naturally, in my opinion. Childbirth, to me, is no exception. I knew that I wanted my child to come into this world when he/she was ready and without induction or intervention. I became rigidly attached to this idea over time. So attached that I judged and cringed and shook my head anytime anyone was enthusiastic about their own c-section or induction or epidural.

After my pregnancy was confirmed March 2013 and began progressing normally, I read more about natural childbirth. I was specifically interested in Hypnobirthing: The Mongan Method. A good friend of mine let me borrow her copy of the book and I read and re-read several passages. I prepared and read and practiced as much as one individual could. I made regular appointments with the midwives at New Birth Company; the only free-standing birth center near where I live. I read more natural birth stories and fell in love with the power that comes from accomplishing something so incredible and empowering as natural childbirth. I began to look forward without fear to the day when labor would begin.

November 17th, my due date, came and went. I was expecting that. What I didn't expect was that the midwives at New Birth were much more concerned about my "overdueness" than I was. Most first time moms are 7-10 days overdue on average. I wasn't worried. I figured things would work out just fine, even if I wasn't yet dilated a single centimeter. I tried to have faith in my body and in my baby.

Just before I hit 41 weeks, I was sent in for a biophysical profile (BPP) and a non-stress test (NST) to check on baby Evie. Everything came back normal. I also met with Dr. Joanna Proverbs at Shawnee Mission Medical Center in the event that I would hit 42 weeks and need to be induced. I was absolutely positive that I would not have to worry about that one bit.

On Tuesday, November 24th, at 41 weeks 2 days, I left work after a busy morning and went in to see a midwife, Melissa, at New Birth for a routine check. I had been feeling some mild cramping for the last 24 hours or more so I was getting excited that things were finally moving along in the right direction. I was checked and was barely dilated to a one. Even more disappointing was that the baby wasn't engaged at all; she was still high above the birth canal. Melissa checked the baby's heart rate. Even I heard the alarming decelerations through the doppler. I stayed for another NST to watch her heart rate for 30 minutes. After the test was over, Melissa came into the room and said that she had spoken to Dr. Proverbs and they both agreed that because of Evie's heart rate decels, it was advisable that I leave immediately for the hospital to be induced.

I was shocked. I broke down. This was NOT in the plan. This was NOT what I wanted. I wanted a natural, induction-free birth experience in the peace of a birth center; not the chaotic, machine-filled hospital ordeal I had seen in documentaries and witnessed for myself in the experiences of others. I called Jonny, who was at work, and told him to meet me at the birth center. He said OK and left work immediately (for future reference, ladies, when you call your husband in tears asking him to meet you where you are planning to give birth, be sure to let him know that the baby is fine before you hang up the phone. I forgot this minor detail and my poor husband imagined the worst during the drive to the birth center.)

We left the birth center around 3:00 that afternoon. I called my doula, Stefanie, and let her know what was going on. She was set to meet me at the Shawnee Mission Medical Center in a couple of hours. In the meantime, my mom went home to grab what little we had packed (birth centers rarely require an overnight stay, so we had only packed the very basics) and would meet us at the hospital later on as well.

By 5:30, I was set up in a room hooked to multiple machines and monitors. It was surreal. Once I had accepted the fact that the birth center was no longer where I would be having this baby, I started to get more calm and even a little bit excited. I would finally be meeting my baby, and that was a wonderful, wonderful thing. I shifted my mind from disappointment to preparation for labor. I was still determined to go as naturally as possible. I would still have the birth experience I wanted even if it was in the location I most dreaded. I was still in control. It would be OK.

Evie's heart rate was monitored for almost an hour, after which Dr. Proverbs announced that she was doing beautifully; no decels, steady heart rate, handling my minor contractions well. She told me I could go home if I wanted to, but that she wouldn't advise it. I agreed to stay and see how things progressed. Dr. Proverbs was wonderful at taking things one small step at a time to assist in my goal of natural labor/childbirth. Cervadil was inserted at 6:30 that night to help thin my cervix (at that point I was barely 50% effaced) in hopes that labor would progress on its own through the night. (I will spare the readers' eyes of the horrific details of discomfort that followed that decision. It was the most not-fun thing I had experienced to that point.)

I was finally allowed food at 8:30; I would have eaten more if I had known it would be my last full meal for nearly two and a half days. (Another one of my biggest complaints about hospital birth, but I digress...) Good thing I have a husband and a mother who defy ridiculous rules and would occasionally slip me bites of food throughout labor.

Contractions were coming steadily through the night; not terribly uncomfortable yet, but I still couldn't sleep. Finally I was given a dose of Stadol at 2:30am to help me sleep. That was a drug trip I will not soon forget, but at least I got a few hours of sleep. The next morning I was dilated to 2cm and was 70% effaced. At 8:30am I was started on low-dose Pitocin. Fear approached again; I had heard such terrible things about laboring with Pitocin. Stefanie assured me it would be OK, and that we would just take things one step at a time.

The dose of Pitocin was increased little by little as labor went on. By almost 12:30 I was dilated to 3cm. Not exactly the speed of labor I was hoping for, but it was still progress. I was still hopeful. The contractions were getting more uncomfortable, coming five minutes apart, but I could still talk through them. Evie's heart rate was monitored closely throughout the entire process via external sensors. The nurses kept having to come in every 15-20 minutes to adjust the monitors. It seemed that whenever I found a comfortable position to labor in, Evie would not tolerate it or she would move out of range and I would have to find another position where she could be more closely tracked.

I was checked again at 3pm (PS-no one tells you that being checked while in labor is more painful than contractions. . . ). Still only 3cm dilated, 70% effaced. The baby had gone from -3 station to -2 station. I held onto the hope that she was at least moving downward at this point, and that was a good thing. Contractions were now getting more severe, coming 2-3 minutes apart, and it took greater degrees of concentration to get through them. Stefanie, my mom, and Jonny all took turns rubbing my shoulders and back during contractions and that helped a great deal. Evie and I finally agreed on a labor position where we were both comfortable, so I stayed in a sitting position on a yoga ball for several hours. I was really looking forward to laboring in the jetted tub in my hospital room. . .

Stefanie left around 5pm (at that point she had been with me for 24 hours) and one of her partners, Sara, came in to coach me through the rest of labor and delivery.

At 5:30pm, Dr. Proverbs came in to check my progress; I was dilated to a 4, still only 70% effaced, baby was still at -2 station and not handling the contractions with Pitocin as well as the doctor would have liked. She asked me if I would be OK with her breaking my water in hopes that my body would take over the contractions and Evie's heart rate would return to normal. I was in so much pain that all I could say was, "I don't know. I don't know." Before I knew it, it was done. The decision was made and she broke my water. After that, my contractions went from painful to excruciating very, very quickly. They were coming almost on top of each other now and I wasn't sure how much longer I could hold out. I was not allowed to labor in the tub until I dilated to a 6. I was told that once one reaches 4cm, one could dilate as quickly as 1cm/hr until birth. I looked at the clock and did the math in my head; that left me at least 2 more hours until the tub, 6 more hours of contractions like this until birth. I was almost 24 hours into labor with no sleep and little food to sustain energy. I was lying on my side surrounded by my mom, Sara, and Jonny. I looked at them with tears in my eyes and told them I just couldn't do it anymore. I felt so defeated. I had now done almost every single thing in labor and childbirth that I was so adamantly opposed to in the beginning. I was incredibly disappointed in myself. Luckily, I had been blessed by an amazing team who were all so encouraging. They all said so many words of support and told me they were impressed with how far I had come despite the obstacles I had faced. There was still a longing for the natural experience that I had wanted initially, but hearing expressions of love helped to bolster my resolve.

Mom and Sara left the room around 6:15 and Jonny stayed with me as they administered the epidural. They also put internal monitors on Evie's head to get more consistent readings of my contractions and her heart rate. I felt relief from the pain very quickly and could now relax a bit. I could still feel very slight contractions but I was almost relieved by that. My good friend, Jaime, came to visit me, which was a strange feeling. Here I was, in active labor, chatting and laughing with friends and family. This was certainly not what I had pictured for my childbirth experience! An hour later, I was still only dilated to 4cm, 80% effaced. The monitors showed heart deceleration after contractions, so I was moved to my right side to labor. There was little improvement after a few contractions, so I was moved to another position. All this moving made the monitors fall off of Evie, so external monitors were applied once again to check her heart rate.

At 8:00pm, my nurse came in and explained that the contractions were not strong enough to encourage further dilation and increasing pitocin was a concern due to the heart rate issues. Dr. Proverbs was consulted and the decision was made to try increasing the pitocin again and monitor the baby very, very closely. At 10:30pm, the pitocin was stopped. The heart decelerations were now a greater concern and my body was not contracting well enough on its own to increase dilation. I was still at 4cm and for a reason only God knows, Evie was not moving into the birth canal. It was around this time that the shaking began. I was having a hard time relaxing. I was shaking so badly that I was afraid I would bite my tongue! The nurses insisted this was a normal, hormonal reaction. This certainly didn't feel normal.

At 11:15pm, Dr. Proverbs was consulted. I knew the end result before the nurse said it aloud; my baby would have to be delivered via C-section. I can't even explain the feelings that ran through my head. I was emotionally numb. I was worried about the baby, I was concerned about the process, I was disappointed in some aspects of the whole experience. . . but mostly I was just ready for it to be over.

The nurses were asked to leave the room as Jonny gave me a Priesthood blessing. I can't remember a single word, but I do remember the blanket of peace that seemed to settle on the whole room and brought the serene reality that made every moment of the previous hours worth it. We were going to meet the baby. FINALLY!

I was wheeled to the OR at 11:35pm. I was still shaking and anxious, but also excited. Genevieve Noelle Alda Miller was born at 12:02am on Thanksgiving Day. She was 8lbs 1oz and 21 inches long. She was born with a temperature of 102, a sure sign of the stress she had been under. As for me, I felt like I was strapped to that operating table for ages, waiting to be sewn back up; waiting to hold my little girl. Jonny got to hold baby Evie while they finished with me. Exhaustion and the heavy emotional toll left me very disconnected through that entire experience in the OR. Everything seemed so mechanical and robotic; like I wasn't really in my own body. Even so, I still remember catching glimpses of my husband holding his brand new daughter. I still remember how he talked to her. And I still remember how proud and overjoyed he looked. In the midst of chaos and frustration and worry and endless shaking, there was that; my new little family. And as they wheeled me (finally) back to my room, I couldn't stop smiling.

Dream Chasing: Part II

Here it is, by request: The exciting Part II. . .

It has been almost seven months from where I left off in my last post. In the days that followed my minor breakdown, I received some inspiring thoughts from my attendance at Time Out For Women (which, by the way, if you've never attended, you should). Every single message was one of love and understanding from my Heavenly Father. It was a rejuvenating experience.

I felt much less like a weepy pile of emotions after that. I was a little more like myself. I still hadn't started my period, however, and I was perplexed. So I took another home pregnancy test. . . and another. . . and another. . . and so on. Five tests later, I still hadn't gotten the positive response I was hoping for. So, naturally, I bought another brand, just to be sure.

I went out to lunch with my Mom that Thursday. We went to Cafe Gratitude in downtown Kansas City. Our waitress was a doula. It was wonderful to talk to her about the absolute joys of natural birth and the power that women possess to do such a thing without pain medication. It was fabulously therapeutic, but at the back of my mind sat all those negative tests. I am embarrassed to admit that I had brought another test with me that day. I sneaked away to the bathroom to take it. As I waited the appropriate time for the results, I read the instruction pamphlet, mostly out of boredom. In it were the words, "...One line may be lighter than the other. This still indicates a positive result."

I looked to the test I had just taken and saw two lines forming a plus sign; one very dark, the other very, very light. I almost laughed aloud at myself. I had now taken SEVEN pregnancy tests, all giving me a positive result that I now realize I had been ignoring. Every single test I had taken had two lines: one very dark, and one very, very light. For some reason, I had convinced myself that the tests were all negative because the results didn't look EXACTLY like I had expected. I have reflected on this over and over again. I have so often been angry or bitter or upset at the "results" of my life: I'm not yet in the career I find most rewarding, I got married too late, I don't have a house like some of my friends do, I don't have kids yet, I'm not a marathon runner or size 6, and so on. It's so easy to look right past the very blessings we are searching for because of the distracting pull of "what's missing". This was a very powerful slap in the face for me. I had cried and been angry and lectured the Lord about something He had already given me.

I found myself significantly humbled and committed to showing more gratitude after that.

Well, we went immediately from Cafe Gratitude to Shawnee Mission Urgent Care to get blood work done to confirm the pregnancy. I was between six and seven weeks, due sometime in November. My mom screamed, I cried, and when I told Jonny (story of my reveal not included in this post), he couldn't stop smiling.

I cannot possibly express the elation. We are going to have a baby. Something we've been waiting and praying for for over two years.

I feel little baby Evie moving around everyday as I get closer to my due date. It is a constant reminder of the experiences that have brought me to this point. My life didn't pan out like I had planned when I was 17.

Thank the Good Lord for that.

Dream Chasing: A Summary Novella

I've returned after the Blog Fast of 2012. . .

In reality, the last 400 days have gone so fast I've forgotten how long it has been since my last entry. It's rather frightening, really. How does one possibly sum up over a year of events, complaints, celebrations, successes, not-so-successful attempts at things, road trips, holidays, deep thoughts, random thoughts, no thoughts, etc? 

I suppose it isn't possible to chronicle that many activities/emotions, especially without illustrations, and hope to keep a captive audience. Instead, I'll try my best to sum up. Most reading this understand that I don't "sum up" well. . . 

I started school at the Institute for Integrative Nutrition (IIN) in September 2012. There are several reasons why this is miraculous. First, it offered me a chance at a career as a Certified Holistic Health Counsellor that I could see myself doing well and absolutely loving every second of. Secondly, it gave me an opportunity to see my health as a priority instead of the thing preventing me from a happy life of thinness.

It is that "thinness" part that is the most devastating to face. I'm OK with being a little chunky. My weight does not define my worth, and, as my husband so lovingly points out, is not a definition of a good or bad person. However, when it gets in the way of pregnancy I get a little antsy and a lot discouraged. (Disclaimer: those who have heard this lament about infertility or have no interest in it can just skip ahead to the end.) Jonny and I had decided a little less than a year after we were married that we wanted to start a family. That was almost two years ago now. I made every effort possible to move forward with faith in the beginning, trying to understand that God has a plan and we just needed to be patient. That concept became progressively more difficult as I watched friends and family alike get pregnant left and right with what seemed like little effort. It was immensely frustrating. Finally, I went to my OB to get some answers.

 It was a  few months before I started school. I sat on the exam table while my OB sat in a chair next to me, test scans in hand. She told me I had at some point in my life developed Polycystic Ovary Syndrome (PCOS), a metabolic disorder that causes pesky little cysts to invade a girl's egg-making parts. I was numb. I was angry. I wasn't really that surprised. At least I had an answer. . . right?

I was further discouraged as the doctor offered to put me on Metformin, a drug typically given to diabetics--which I was not then nor am I now. She told me it would help me lose weight and set my cycles straight.

              "After all," She said to me, "getting pregnant without it will be a craps shoot at this point."

For the first time in my life, I understood why America is so over-medicated. We just want what everyone else already has and we're offered it in a little, harmless capsule by the doctors we trust. For me, my "quick fix" drug was just around the corner at my local CVS.  (Don't get me wrong, modern medicine has it's place, but it certainly isn't in every bathroom cabinet in America.) Despite my protests to go at it naturally and fix my diet instead of relying on a pill, my OB decided she would call in that prescription anyway, "just in case I changed (my) mind." Boy, was THAT hard to hear. I understand why she expressed a bit of disappointment in my convictions to avoid the prescription world. She resides on Planet MD, where everything is solved in the pill section. I don't blame her, really. It's her job. I'm sure she's seen plenty of women try and fail. After all, wasn't swallowing a little medication every day easier anyway?

It took a while to shake that feeling of being lost and unsure of myself. Everything I had believed to be true was being tested. I believed that the human body is miraculous and can cure itself of almost anything if given the right fuel. I believed that "quick fixes" in pill form isn't the right way to go in most cases and it certainly shouldn't be the very first thing we try. I believed that modern medicine is taking away our ability to listen to our own bodies and be our own source of strength. I believed that we should be the pioneers in our own health and take control again instead of searching endlessly for diagnoses. But now, that was all so muddled in my head. I had been trying and trying to take control of my own body and I could not find success. Were all my hypotheses about God's greatest creation incorrect? If so, what was I to do next?

My answers came through IIN. What I then believed to be true has been solidified to me now; the human body IS miraculous. It can grow new skin cells to cover a wound, it never forgets to breathe or misses a heartbeat, it can create life, it can take us to amazing heights, it can be trained to function off of medications it was once reliant on. We just need give it the right fuel and information and love to do so.

Ok, my hippie feelings aside (also, if you're curious about what I do, please visit my website at www.cereliahealth.com...*wink wink*), I'll finish up what is turning out to be a rather lengthy story. . .

January 2nd, 2013, I gave up processed sugar after an immense and in-depth look into the harm it does on the human body. I went almost 90 days without it. I slowly added a little bit back in (depravity is really not my style) on special occasions and still mostly avoid the stuff. And guess what? Miracle of miracles! My cycle was 28 days on the dot for two months straight. That was SERIOUSLY miraculous. That hadn't happened to me in almost a decade. I was elated. I found success and slow weight loss as I started really taking care of myself and I felt a sense of empowerment that I hadn't felt in a long, long time.

Then, in March, I was 10 days late. I was so disheartened. I felt upset with myself because I had allowed myself a single rice crispy treat and ruined my body's progress. I felt a little glimmer of hope, however. "Maybe I'm pregnant?" I thought to myself. Just to be sure, I took a home pregnancy test.

I didn't see that little plus sign. It was negative.

I'm not going to lie, I went on a sadness binge that rivaled most melodramas. Jonny got home from work that day and took one look at me and knew exactly what had happened. He hugged me and held me for the longest time as I sobbed on his shoulder (another work shirt ruined by my mascara). I went to work the day after and cried for nearly 8 hours straight. I cried when people were nice to me, I cried about a work meeting I wasn't invited to, I cried when I forgot to clock out for lunch. . .

It was really, really pathetic.

The very worst part about that were my angry vents to the Lord. I wanted him to tell me when we were allowed to have children; I wanted him to speak to me in ENGLISH because I was so tired of listening to the Spirit because I didn't understand what message I was missing. I screamed and cried and felt sorry for myself for two straight days.

Poor Jonny. Poor sweet, loving Jonny had to listen to this for hours on end and he never complained.

Eventually, I did feel better again, but that comes in Part II of this little adventure. In the weeks following there was General Conference and Time Out For Women and some really wonderful revelations about how much the Lord loves us. But all that can wait for another entry, as this one has gone on long enough.

(What did I tell you about my ability to sum up?)

The "Ah-ha" Moment: A Christmas Essay

Sometimes I hate how much I love the Christmas season. Although the temperature barely dipped below 50 degrees in Kansas this year, December still brought the same obligations and feelings and endless shopping that it always does. And I love it. I'm fairly sure Jonny will love it, too, one day.

As is normal in newlywed life, most of our "extra" monies are going toward our goal of owning our own home (a mere twinkle in our eyes at this point, but a goal nonetheless). Ergo, we had to get creative for gifts this year.

So, I bought him a bike. . .

No, seriously, it's something he's wanted and needed and deserved for a while. After all, this is the man who tirelessly does what I ask of him with few objections. He trusts and loves and gives without complaint. Perfect, he is not, but I daresay he's pretty darn close. Thanks, Mom and Pop Miller for raising such a stellar son.

Getting back the festivities. . . Every year I tell myself that I'm going to spend more time with the Savior and less time at Target and every year I fall a little bit short. I think that's the point, though, isn't it? To try to focus on the birth of our Lord just a little more than last year? To that end, this year our group of friends adopted a couple of boys through the Red Bag program. Together we went shopping for these two faceless kiddos. We bought toys and clothes and roller blades and books, wrapped them, and shoved them into a big, red, Santa-like bag. For a while, we collectively forgot the task of picking out the perfect gifts for each other and instead spent our time, money, and effort on picking out things that these two boys actually needed. It was really. . .fun.

On the flip-side of that, we had another enormous blessing this year: our entire family spent Christmas together. I can't remember the last time all four of us kids got to spend an entire evening sitting around the old, wooden kitchen table laughing our guts out. The circumstances weren't perfect by any means, but I'll be forever grateful that we had that opportunity. Jonny gave up Christmas with his family this year to spend it with mine. His parents are off to the Philippines for an 18-month mission this coming February, so his sacrifice has not gone unnoticed, nor is it unappreciated. I'll have to make him meat dinners for a week just to make it up to him. :)

I report these two activities to share with you my reflections on my goal of focusing on Christ. In retrospect, my efforts are almost laughable. I spent a few hours picking out and wrapping gifts for some little boy I didn't know, and I expected the warm, fuzzy, Christmas feelings to abound and change my entire outlook on life, Scrooge-style. Guess what? It didn't happen. Sure, I felt great. I felt like our group had done a great thing in helping someone who would have very little without us, but it didn't change my heart forever. I didn't have a new outlook on life. The warm fuzzies didn't even stay very long. I mean, it was 10pm on a work night. I was exhausted!!

On the other hand, there was the family time. There were arguments, fights, insults thrown, feelings hurt, and threats to leave. That almost always has to be endured when every Birdsall is present and accounted for in one house. We also spent several days playing games, making fun of each other, frequenting the dog park together, encouraging an ever-present food coma, and trying our best to help out when needed. Mom hurt her foot pretty bad, so we made her sit down and we took over making Christmas dinner. That was no small feat (HAHA! FEET! Pun intended). Mom can be a stubborn perfectionist and having little control over the way things were done was tough for her. (She also REALLY hates not being able to help out).

It was that last experience that really brought this season home for me. Nat, Andrea, Audrey, and I stepped in and took over when Mom just couldn't (or wasn't allowed to). All my previous Herculean efforts (and I say that with sarcasm) to make Christmas about giving fell a little flat. Suddenly it dawned on me that our little tag-team of dinner makers weren't trying to prove something or impress anyone or display our efforts to the rest of the world like a flag. We just wanted to give to the woman who has given of herself for more than 30 years.

Believe me, this is not meant to be a brag sheet. In fact, the rest of the girls are of constant help and are incredible examples to me of seeing a need and filling it without complaint or hope of reward. But for the first time, I understood what Christ was saying when he said, ". . .if ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me."

In Christmases to come, I will still seek opportunities to serve and give outside of my own family. I hope I won't wait around for December, either. I will, however, see it just a bit differently. These are humans we were helping; children of God, not just names on a note card.

Giving of yourself is a wonderful thing, but giving from the heart is a whole other story. At 31 years-old, I think I might finally get that.

Expecting

The floor of our little, one-bedroom apartment is cluttered with stuffed animals and colorful toys. There is a "diaper bag" in the corner of the room, ready with all the supplies needed for an outing. Up until about 2 months ago, Jonny and I were woken up several times a night by little whines and cries. Our budget has expanded to make room for the extra mouths to feed. My greatest fears have been realized: I'm a dog mom.

Sometime mid-April, my sister, Natalie, came across a craigslist ad for two Doberman-mix pups that desperately needed a home. Jonny and I ventured out to Topeka with the promise that we were just going to take a look. No adoption, just looking. Well, that's what Jonny thought. Meanwhile, I was making a mental list of the supplies we needed.

Truth be told, they were the saddest, most pathetic looking puppies I had ever seen. Seven weeks and crawling with worms, they were thin as rails with no energy to spare. They were nothing like the chubby, clumsy little pups I had seen online and on TV. I would like to say that my heart was overtaken with the desire to save these little babies... but that's not exactly how I felt. In fact, as we drove to PetCo with the two of them in the back seat, I had this sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that we were in for a rough ride.

We brought them home, showed them off, and named the girl, Laila and the boy, Apollo. (My dreams of owning a girl dog named Thirteen will be realized someday, but when we named him Apollo, I just couldn't bring myself to link us that closely to NASA.)

When I mentioned earlier about being woken up several times a night, I wasn't kidding. These little ones required a LOT of attention. They had been sick most of their lives and as a result, their immune systems needed a lot of work. I remember one night in particular with Apollo. He had woken up with horrible diarrhea somewhere around midnight...and 1:30...and 2:15... and 3am... At some point around 4am, I took him outside again and stayed there with him for over an hour. It was quiet and warm and the two of us sat on the grass outside of the apartment. I had gotten zero sleep. I was exhausted. He lay by my side with his head on my lap and I stroked his soft fur until he fell asleep. He became my dog that night.

...and Laila will forever be tied to Jonny. I have no idea why. That little girl won't listen to a word I say until Jonny comes around. She jumps obnoxiously high when he comes home from work. It's adorably frustrating.

It's been five months of training, and accidents, and cleaning up messes, and constant supervision, and missing social/church activities, and lots and lots and LOTS of purchasing, and I don't think either of us regret any of it. It has been a small glimpse into what it's going to be like to have little humans running around.

Speaking of which...

Just kidding.

3 Cars Down...

I seem to be quite attached to my emotions. I have dubbed myself an "emotion-dweller". Once I pick an emotional theme for the day-usually chosen based on vital factors and events such as the success of my hairstyle or the way my breakfast tastes-I usually make that emotion my constant companion. When my emotion is a happy one, life is amazing, no matter what. My job is amazing, my car is amazing, my husband is amazing, my socks are amazing... I am just one big bundle of red-headed cheesiness. Conversely, when my toe gets stubbed the minute I get out of bed or if I end up in the same old hoodie because none of my outfits look quite right, the emotion I get stuck with is: crabby. On days like that day, I walk with hooded eyes, glaring at patients and coworkers alike, convinced that the world may as well end if it's going to keep going in this direction.

It was on such a day that our car broke down. Again. We have three of those. Cars, I mean. Three cars that don't work. Let me begin this story of breaking cars at the beginning:

Last Saturday night, Jonny and I were joined by my sister, Natalie, her husband, John, their baby, Brianne, my other sister, Andrea (whose husband, John, stayed in Colorado), and Andrea's baby, Mojo (a hyper-active, fit, noisy, little pug.) Three women, two men, a baby, and a pug, all camping out for a weekend in a little one-bedroom apartment. It was, for the record, one of my favorite weekends to date. Nothing, I thought, could scare Happy away from me after being with my sisters for two straight days.

Well, Sunday morning came around and we all bundled up and got ready to head off to church. We discovered that our Ford Contour had a flat. Well, good thing we still had my Mazda and Jonny's 1986 Buick.

Strike that. We HAD my Mazda. It's constant screeching upon start-up finally convinced me to take it into the shop. Monday afternoon, the mechanic called. It would take $1,100 to fix that car. I'm not even sure if it's WORTH over a thousand dollars. I cried a little, panicked a lot, and called my husband. He seemed to be unaffected by it, saying it will all work out and to just have faith that we are doing the right things. Oh if I could just have convinced Crabby to move out of the way so that I could possibly see the silver lining in all of this. I took a deep breath and remembered that we had been through the one-car routine before, and we could do it again if we had to. We have a friend who could probably fix the Mazda for cheaper, and at least I still have family and friends and a warm place to sleep and really cool socks.

More deep breaths.

Then the next day, on the way home from picking up Jonny from work, the Buick started sputtering, then knocked a little, then smoke started coming from the hood. We were minutes from home, in the middle of what was projected to be the biggest blizzard in years, and our last car was breaking down. I couldn't stop laughing. And then I couldn't stop crying. Every single "woe, is me" that I could think of came spewing angrily from my mouth. I was giving up. My husband sat silently in the passenger seat next to me, waiting for all my theatrics to work themselves out of my system. I don't know how he remains so calm when his wife is so obviously not. More reassurances, more helpful pats on the knee, more effort to convince me that everything was going to be ok because the Lord won't just abandon someone He just handed a trial to.

I would love to say that I sighed a heavy sigh of relief, and happily sputtered the remainder of the drive home to our apartment, but that's not exactly what happened. Crabby stuck with me through most of the day, I am ashamed to admit that I just could not shake the feeling that everything was hopeless, and that life could not possibly get any worse.

In my massive pout, I found the following quote posted on my friend, Debbie's, facebook status:

"What I am trying to teach is that when we keep the temple covenants we have made and when we live righteously in order to maintain the blessings promised by those ordinances, then come what may, we have no reason to worry or to feel despondent."
—Richard G. Scott

Ah, what perspective appeared so suddenly in my little torn-apart world! Something suddenly changed. For the record, our problems weren't suddenly solved. I didn't have a magic car appear and our car(s) didn't repair themselves, but I realized that my embarrassing lack of faith had made it very difficult to see that there is a way out of this mess; that things could-and someday probably would-be worse, but if I'm doing what I'm supposed to be doing, the Lord would take care of us. Jonny and I are being taught very valuable lessons. Appreciation for each other, and the things that we DO have; that ARE going right.

Eventually, I will look back at this experience and giggle a little at the struggles of newlywed life, but for now I'm just trying to conquer Crabby and make more room for a little bit of faith.

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