Midwives- A Book Review

I finished reading Midwives by Chris Bohjalian today, and want to review it while it's still fresh in my memory. I've read a few of Bohjalian's books in the past- and have enjoyed them. Now if I could just pronounce his last name!

Midwives tells the story of a midwife who finds herself stranded at a home birth that goes terribly wrong and performs a c-section on the mother after she's died. The only problem: what if the mother wasn't really dead and the midwife killed her, by accident. By trying to rescue the unborn child. (Not a spoiler alert. All this information is on the dust jacket).

Certainly this book appealed to me as a mother who just gave birth with a midwife. And the subject is pretty black and white. There aren't too many people who have neutral feelings about home births. There is a pretty compelling court case throughout the book, and the characters and dialogue are believable- if not completely warranting sympathy.

While I didn't care deeply for any of the characters, I admire how Bohjalian wrote about birthing from a woman's perspective- as a male writer.
My favorite quote of the book:
"...Each surge has the potential to change a mother, and eventually one will. I told him how a woman at that stage might go from being this totally serene person in touch with everything around her, to this frenzied animal unaware of anything but her own physical reality. Her surges. The way her body is changing. And that's part of the deal, the giving up of everything- and I mean everything- but the demands of labor. A woman's body knows what it's doing, I said, and she just has to let it do its own thing." -Pg. 228

Aside from the woman dying during childbirth (freaky!) this book brought back many tremendous memories of my own recent birthing experience with Sabine and our fabulous midwife, Kelly. (Pictured below).

For the book itself, I'd give it 4/5 stars. For what it made me remember and feel: 5/5
Added bonus: It was a library book, so I got the experience for free! What a novel idea... (Ugh, bad puns!)

And if I ever get to meet Chris Bohjalian, and if we were ever to become friendly enough that I could speak candidly with him, I'd say, "Chris, buddy, I really like your books. You tell a damn fine story. Maybe you could set just ONE of them outside of Vermont? Just a thought. Cheers." And then we'd continue telling the war stories that only road-wearied novelists can weave.

Until then, happy reading, friends.

Scattered Much?

The other day I was talking with Bob, and he made an excellent observation:
"I think once you start the school year, you'll find that your life is more focused- and you won't have time to spread yourself too thin."
Now- this might not make sense to anyone else. It seems like when the school year is in session I would be more frenzied, instead of less.
Yes and No.
Consider this: since moving to Kansas, we worked feverishly, crazily, balls-to-the-wall-y to get settled into our house. The results: our home is lovely, and it feels very much like we've lived here for years. Done and done.
Next up: have ourselves a baby. Now, most of the hard work was already done. Sabine was only 7 weeks from being born when we moved into our house. All we had to do was get settled, find a birthing center, and go through labor. The results: Sabine had the birthing experience I've dreamed of my entire life: naturally born, unmedicated, on a (real, not hospital) bed surrounded by people I love more than anything.
Done and done.
Next up: Ummmm... there was a yawning expanse of possibilities. Some of the options that pinged around my head: stay at home and write and mother, teach Language Arts at Leavenworth High School, try to stay sane as Bob was gone for the entire month of June, keep some semblance of order in my house and laundry, and- uh, what about query letters? And damnit, why can't I get my body to run FASTER? Huh... CrossFit looks fun. Oh, we're out of peanut butter.
I couldn't calm my thoughts and put them into a plan, because I didn't know what to do or how to get there.
But things are falling into place.
Yesterday Sabine turned 12 weeks old, which in itself is astonishing. How can that much time have passed so quickly? And I feel it also explains some of the weirdness... hormones. They're a mo-fo.

So the plan is this:
Teach Language Arts at Leavenworth High School. My boxes of stuff are in my classroom, but it's not set up. My Kansas license is applied for, but not finalized. THE AGONY! C'mon already, I'm ready to start getting my life into a rhythm. But I'm afraid of losing this baby time with Sabine. THE GUILT!

The girls are starting full time CYS (on-post daycare) on Monday. Well, actually, Margot is starting full time. I'm not sure how much Sabine will go in the next two weeks. Enough for me to get my classroom set up and write some query letters...

I have two and a half weeks ahead of me before I have to start going to Leavenworth School District meetings. The girls will be in school, and this allows me the time to: figure out how to pump the right amount of milky for Sabine to take to school with her. Run at the gym each day. And query literary agents. It's been strangely thrilling to have Bob ask me when I plan to start writing my next book. Say what?! The man believes in me! Then yesterday I mused that I might re-read the Harry Potter books during the next two and a half weeks. In silence. Bliss... until my biggest fan said, "What about your query letters?" Right. Yes, of course I'll get those written.

But first I must re-read my novel. You know, to get the juices flowing. To revive my confidence. To ensure I don't write a letter that sounds like this:
Dear Agent,
I wrote a pretty good book that you really need to take a look at. Thanks in advance. Smiley face.

And did I mention my running is not what it used to be before I gave birth? I know that must come as a shock. Why the hell not, you might be asking yourself. It's the question I'm asking, too. And I'm attempting to beat my body into submission with CrossFit. Which is torturous in a way that makes you humbly say, "Thank you, sir; may I have another?" whilst kneeling in your own feces, handcuffed, and blindfolded. I don't know why it appeals to me, but it does. Don't judge me.

So that's where I am right now:
Mothering every minute, running as many hours as I can, finding time to re-read my novel, write query letters, move into my classroom, prepare for the first week of school- and hoping desperately the state of Kansas doesn't pull a fast one in the eleventh hour.

And one day, when all the above has been nailed down, then I will brew myself a lovely cup of coffee, sit down and write the first sentences to my newest novel (which are solidified in my head)... and all will be right in the world.
But for now... I really do think we're out of peanut butter.

Confidence, where art thou?

You know how it feels like you're getting somewhere when you talk something out- just talk and talk until you feel like you've reached a solution? Yes, this is what's happening. Welcome to my internal dialogue. I don't believe talking to yourself makes you crazy (and neither do the voices in my head).

Remember those manuscripts in the pictures above? Remember how I slaved over them, cried tears into the paper, and ruthlessly edited out carefully chosen words? Yes, me too.

Suddenly, well- it's been more gradual than "suddenly"- they're beginning to feel like shit. Yes, that's right. Maybe you prefer the terms Drivel, Nonsense, What the Hell Were You Thinking Taking Eight Months to Write a Novel?

And before you say all the wonderful things you've been saying- which IS encouraging, but you don't have to live inside my head, let me cut you off at the pass and try to do the heavy morale lifting for you. (Incidentally, this is the same process I try to use whilst running- the pep talk extraordinaire).

Self, perhaps you should consider the following:

1. You've only sent out 8 agent queries and heard back from two. The other six have presumably left you for dead. -Maybe... I should send out a few (dozen) more. Yeah, that's what I tell myself, and that's what others tell me, too. This is like walking right into a pit that has a tightrope strung across it. I know the rope is there, but it's a shot in the dark to find it. And 54/55 times I'm going to miss it and trip headlong into the pit. -But who cares about the ones who reject your work? The agent who is meant to represent you will. So true. But it comes down to confidence- and mine is flagging.

2. You really do believe in your heart of hearts that writing is the next stage of your life. And you would NEVER encourage someone to sit around and wallow in their stupid fears when facing a challenge. You would be the FIRST to say- Lace up your shoes; let's run! or Send in those applications! or One more e-mail to branch can't hurt! Fight for your future! Damn straight! Yes, well, when the shoe is on the other foot- it's a bit daunting. And perhaps I owe a few hundred people apologies for pushing them too hard. (I'll get started on those apology letters as soon as I've written the query letters...)

3. My most recent hair brained motivation or lack thereof- I need a new desk chair. Mine is abysmal. I need to find one that supports a proper writer's back. Until then... well...

Maybe this weekend needs to be devoted to finding a desk chair. That would be a good place to start. And one more excuse to axe.

4. Now for a couple of goodies:

• "Don't give up! It took Thomas Edison 1,000 tries to make the light bulb." -I ran across this one in our school's planner this week. I'm pretty sure it was put there just for me.
• “Passion won’t protect you against setbacks, but it will insure that no failure is ever final.” -Steve Jobs

So next time you see me... ask how the agent quest is going. Then if I don't give you a good, solid, confident answer- give me a dose of my own medicine. A "You can do it! You BETTER do it!" Your confidence coupled with my own just might do the trick.

"Volks-Run?"

In Germany, the locals do this thing where they get in a big group in one small town and then walk through fields and other little towns (stopping for beer and pretzels along the way) until they get to a predetermined end location. This is called a Volksmarch. It can be a languorous pace, or it can be a workout. It depends on location and how zealous the other people in the crowd are.

Sunday, I'll be running the Fueled By Fine Wine half marathon down in Oregon, and I'm approaching it like a volksmarch, but since I'll be running most of it, I'll call it a volks-run.

I'm looking at this race differently than those in the past. This is the first long(er) distance race I've run since that whole ectopic debacle, and I just want to embrace the fact that my body has worked for me (most of the time) and has done a pretty good job. I'm truly blessed that this frame of mine will carry me through life's ups and downs, not to mention long runs.

The game plan looks like this:

• Enjoy the scenery- It's in wine country! Hello?! Pretty, pretty, pretty.
• Don't worry about pace- Much of the run is off road and there is a 800 foot climb. That might not sound like a ton of feet, but trust me, it's grueling.
• Take a picture or two?- In past races- like the Athens Marathon in Greece, I've scoffed at people stopping to take pictures. How gauche! How amateur! But guess what? I'm never going to be an elite runner, and I sure as hell wish I had some pictures from that Athens marathon to remember it a little better, since my brain was addled from the 19 mile uphill. But I digress. Where was I? Oh, right- taking pictures. I'll have my iPhone for music, so I think I'll stop to capture the moment on film... or pixels. Whatever.

I've never felt this relaxed before a half marathon... and really, it's only a half. It will be okay. But depending on how Sunday goes, this might be my new running M.O. Plus, wine tasting and artisinal goat cheese on baguettes at the finish line doesn't sound half bad.

All the world's a stage... I don't think that's what Shakespeare meant.

The five stages of grief... I've heard of them.

1. Denial

2. Anger

3. Depression

4. Bargaining

5. Acceptance

They seem like a really practical way of dealing with grief.

But I'm not grieving. -Step One. Denial. Damn. Okay, I might be grieving a little bit... more so now that the hormones from the ectopic pregnancy are leaving my body.

And why they're taking their sweet-ass time leaving my body and are consequently dragging this pregnancy and grieving process out longer and longer, I don't know.... which INFURIATES me! -Yeah, step 2. Anger.

Here's what I'm mad about right now:

1. Why couldn't this whole thing be done with three weeks ago when it started?

2. Why are the hormones lingering and making me crazy?

3. Why can't I just move on? The egg was the size of a pine nut. Get over yourself, you little nut! (Addressed to myself, not the poor little zygote that apparently couldn't work a compass and didn't know which direction was down, south, the lower floor, the uterus. -Jeez. How hard could it be?-Said, while yelling at my gut).

Am I depressed? Tricky question since people who are depressed don't know it. -Or deny it (step 1). Who knows.

Bargaining. This is me on the treadmill- "Okay, Liz. Run to get strong. The strongest you've ever been, so no baby will choose to vacate your body again. You'll be so strong that you won't let it." Here's me blogging, "Right. So what I'm going to do is eat as much protein and as many vegetables as I can, so that my body is the ideal vessel that no little fetus would DREAM of leaving!"

Yeah, then I think- Get real, Liz. You've been running your whole adult life and haven't met a veg or glass of water you've turned down. -What's the use? (Hmmm... could be step 3. Depression).

I guess this whole process has been harder than I've been willing to admit. But I'm hoping that once the pregnancy is, indeed, over- that I can breeze through the rest of the steps and be on my merry way.

And don't even think about suggesting that kind of thinking is clearly Step 1, because I might be tempted to act on Step 2 and wring your neck.

You Are What You Eat

Anyone who knows me at all knows that I'm pretty passionate about eating healthfully. And luckily here in Washington we have all kinds of access to affordable, organic food. -I'm thinking of our co-op and the farmer's market (where I took these photos last year).

That said, this last week has seemed to call for two things (okay, three) in order for me to feel better. First, there were an awful lot of sweets and carbs in general. And just about every evening there was a glass or two of wine to dull the pain Aleve just wasn't touching. And the third thing was staying home with my family. We just holed up and didn't leave the house- unless we had to.

Could I live like that forever? No. Did I know it was short term... and that I would get back to normal in a week or so? Yes.

Ding, ding, ding! Time's up.

Bob's in the field for a couple of weeks, and that gives me the perfect space to get back to what I know I should be doing to be my healthiest self. Margot and I launched the "Revival" tonight with chicken Caesar salad... that I grilled and prepared for us. All natural, all organic. -And my toddler loved every bite of it just as much as I did.

I think/know that things happen when they're supposed to and I embrace that. So I don't think anything I did or didn't do caused the miscarriage. But I do want to get my body back to peak health in order to give the next baby... whenever the right time will be... the chance to grow and thrive in a healthy body for the better part of a year.

So it's back to running. -Half marathon scheduled for July in Oregon.

And back to tons of fruits and vegetables. -I love them. No candy on earth can touch a fruit in season.

Finally, it's time for more protein. I've got muscle to build and red blood cells to replace. And grilling isn't too much of a hassle. (But it will be much better when Bob's back. Everything is, actually).

And the wine will stay in the weekends.

When you know better, you eat better. And when you eat better, you feel better.

I'm on my way.

First Rule of Fight Club

"The first rule of Fight Club is- you DON'T talk about Fight Club." Brad Pitt might as well have issued these same instructions to women all over the globe who have had miscarriages.

Here's the thing I've discovered in the last week. Almost everyone I know has joined the club- against her will. The club we won't talk about.

How do I know? Because, new as I am to the club, I said (with lots of tears) the "M" word, and women have hugged me and whispered in my ear. "I know. It happened to me too."

I get it. I do. Who wants to drudge up horrible pain? And certainly you don't want to mention it to a glowing, happily rotund preggo. Nope. No way. No Ma'am. It just isn't done.

Even as I write this, I'm thinking to myself. -Drop it, Liz! You don't want to be the one who can't move on or insists on talking about it. And even as I think this, I remind myself: You know what? My blog. My rules. And it's been less than a week.

And that goes for you too, Brad Pitt. How's this for a rule? I'll talk about "It," the "M Word," "Miscarriages" as little or as much as I want to.

Friends, sisters- and brothers, too!- it's okay! Life happens, and sometimes it doesn't deal you a solid. It doesn't persist in the manner you wish it would. I, for one, am willing to step out of the shadows and let the world see where life knocked me around a little bit.

So if you want to have that conversation, then pull up a chair. I'm not going to cry on your shoulder- or maybe I will, who knows? But I'm willing to listen to your story and to acknowledge every craggy step you've had to climb to get to where you are today.

Let's face it. Sometimes those steps knock us on our ass. -But I've never had one knock me out.

Fight Club, Indeed.