To Love and Let Go

by Rachel Brathen

  Things settled into a new normal after that. I didn’t feel the need to separate myself from her anymore, and I didn’t feel tense when we spent time together. I felt free. It was like the baby brought about a new level of connection in our relationship—now we got to love someone we were both a part of, instead of being so intently focused on each other. I started having regular contact with my mom again, but in a way that didn’t feel suffocating. She continued with AA and I had learned to draw the line between her life and mine. Stepping into the journey of becoming a mother brought about a new sense of respect and reverence for my mom. She had done this four times—all alone. She’d been through hell and back and had managed to raise four beautiful kids. I hadn’t even given birth yet, and I was already feeling overwhelmed with what was ahead. I was humbled and gained a new respect for everything my mother had been through to bring me and my siblings into the world. A part of me was terrified; Would I manage? Was I ready? I knew I could only do my best, just like my mom had. When I was three months pregnant someone told me something that would forever change the way I looked at my past. When we are pregnant with a daughter, we actually carry two generations in our womb. The eggs that will one day become my daughter’s children are already inside of her, meaning they are inside of me. This means that when my mother was pregnant with me, she also had our little poppy seed inside of her. The three of us have been intertwined since before I was born. What if all of this was fated? What if we were meant to go through life just like this, for this moment to arrive? What if we’d been waiting for Poppy all along?

  In August I announced my pregnancy on social media. Sharing my pregnancy with the world felt so special—I’d shared everything with my community over the past few years and taking them along on such a happy journey felt like solidifying a new chapter. For the most part, everything went as expected. I continued with work and travel and we prepared for Island Yoga to open at the beginning of the New Year. Dennis was so excited to be a dad. We went to our second ultrasound and found out that, indeed, it was a girl. I was overjoyed. Every morning I would roll out my yoga mat, sit down, put my hands on my belly, and talk to her. I’d talk about how excited I was to meet her and tell her everything I’d been through and all the things it took for us to be there. I’d tell her about all the beauty of life and the things I loved and struggled with. I’d tell her about Andrea, about how much I missed her. “Tell her I love her, okay?” I’d ask. “Tell her we missed her at the wedding and that it was beautiful. Tell her Pepper peed on my dress—she would have fallen over laughing, I know it. Tell her we hung her bridesmaid’s dress in a corner and lit a candle and made an altar and everyone went to sit there. Tell her I miss her, all the time.” I’d practice yoga and move and stretch and breathe and in the end, I’d sit in meditation. It was like having her inside of me intensified my ability to sit in silence, to be present, to feel. “Look,” I’d whisper. “The sun is rising.” And we’d sit there, watching the sun rise. Pregnancy was so beautiful. It was like the puzzle pieces I had spent my life trying to figure out all fell into place. In a way, it felt as if everything was meant to happen the way it did, in the time it did, so I could watch my belly grow and feel everything connect in time for her to be born.

  When I got into my third trimester, things started getting challenging. My belly was huge—really huge—and already from week thirty-six the midwives started telling me to get ready for an early labor. “This is already a big baby!” they said. “Don’t be surprised if she comes a little early.” This being my first pregnancy, I had no idea what to expect for the birth. I read every natural birthing book I could get my hands on and decided I wanted to birth at home, in a birth pool. I loved Ina May’s quote from her popular Guide to Childbirth—“In the medical community birth is something that happens to women . . . In the midwifery community, birth is something women DO.” I was set on being in control for this birth and the more I read, the more I felt comfortable about doing it at home. I didn’t want drugs imposed on me or to be in a sterile environment surrounded by strangers. I envisioned myself at home, burning incense, candles lit, singing mantras, surrounded by our dogs. Having already been told to prepare for labor in week thirty-six, as the days continued I started becoming more and more anxious to see the baby. I was huge, and now had pelvic pain so intense it was getting difficult to walk. By the time my due date finally rolled around at the end of February, I was so uncomfortable. I couldn’t sleep at night, had intense heartburn, and the pelvic and pubic bone pain I’d been experiencing over the last month had intensified to the point that I wasn’t even able to get off the couch.

  The last days of my pregnancy were some of the most challenging days of my life. I had never been so uncomfortable. Dennis and I did every trick in the book: we went for long walks, I ate spicy food, drank castor oil, ate tons of pineapple, had sex . . . nothing worked. In the back of my mind I knew March 10 was coming, but the idea of another ten days of heavy pregnancy felt unimaginable. The days dragged on, and the midwives started getting worried about my being overdue. “We’ll give you a week,” they said. “You can go until March seventh, but after that we’ll have to induce you and you’ll need to have a hospital birth.” “But I told you March tenth all along!” I cried. “I’m not having this baby at the hospital. I’m having her at home.” There were three midwives working at the center and only one of them agreed to go on with a home birth if I went as far as two weeks overdue. “It better be March tenth,” she said. “It will be,” I said.

  Finally, the day arrived. I woke up giddy with anticipation, like a child on Christmas Day. “Today is the day!” I told Dennis. He yawned, still sleepy, and looked at me. “Okay—just lie back and push then!” he joked. This whole time he’d been pretty ambivalent about my being set on this specific date. “You think you can tell this baby when it’s time for her to come out but you can’t!” he said, suddenly serious. “It might be today. It might not. You’re going to have to let go of control.” I knew he was right, but it wasn’t easy. I spent the day talking to the baby, immersed in meditation, on my yoga mat, and walking around the house getting everything ready. I was on pins and needles, feeling for any sort of movement or something that might resemble a contraction. Nothing. When afternoon rolled around I started getting anxious—this was supposed to be the day!—and went out to sit on the porch. “Listen, darling. I’m ready for you. Please come out now. You are so loved. We are so ready for you. Today is a perfect day to make your way earth-side!” I felt the baby move, and suddenly heard her talking back. “No,” she said. I was stunned. I closed my eyes, and when I envisioned the baby I could actually see her with her arms crossed, legs pressing up on the sides of my uterus, face serious. She was pouting! “No,” she said again. No? Just no? I couldn’t believe it.

  The doorbell rang—it was my acupuncturist, Romina. I’d been seeing her consistently every week throughout the pregnancy and had asked her to come over to help get labor started. She is known on the island as someone who talks to babies—many women see her around the end of their pregnancies to help get labor going. Being with her is like being in the presence of a wise elder, and she’d been a pillar of support for me all throughout the pregnancy. We went upstairs and she started working on me. “Ten days overdue, eh?” she said. “You must be feeling very uncomfortable.” I smiled, knowing she knew what I felt. I lay on my side as she put needles in different parts of my body, connecting to energy points known to induce labor. “You’re tense today,” she said. “Is everything okay?” “It’s just important that she comes today,” I said. “Why?” Romina asked. “It just is.” I told her about wanting to have the home birth and feeling pressured to have labor start so I wouldn’t have to go to the hospital, but even as I told the story I knew it was only a small part of the truth. This wasn’t about the hospital, or the midwives, or about home birth . . . this was about Andrea. I needed the baby to be born today so I could feel more connected to her. Almost the whole day had passed
and I hadn’t even spoken to her—actually, I hadn’t even thought about her at all. Normally on the anniversary of her death I’d sit down by her altar, or write to her, or try to talk to her, but I was so set on having the birth happen on this day that I’d completely ignored the big, intense wave of grief I could feel now, stuck in the back of my throat. I said nothing and just pushed it away. I didn’t want to cry, not now. I had to focus on the baby. Romina continued working on me and went from needles to cupping. As she pulled vacuum-sealed glass vials over my back, I felt a sadness so heavy wash over me that I almost couldn’t contain it. I didn’t want to feel it. I needed this to be a day of joy, not pain! I wanted so badly to turn everything around, to change the story, to flip the script . . . but as I was lying there, hugging my enormous belly, needles in my feet, I was beginning to realize that maybe, just maybe, that wasn’t how life worked. Suddenly, Romina stopped. Very quietly, she put her hands on the sides of my belly and squatted down next to me. An electric wave of energy entered the room and I could feel the hairs on the backs of my arms stand up. For a long time neither of us spoke. Then she stood up and broke the silence. “What happened on this day?” she said. “What do you mean?” I asked. “Something happened on this day. Something painful.” I don’t know how she knew, but I couldn’t hold back the tears anymore. “My best friend died. Three years ago.” “On this day?” Romina asked. I nodded. “Yes.” “Okay,” she said. “Listen. The baby, she sits right beneath your heart. Right here. She feels everything you feel. That pain, in your heart, welling up in the back of your throat? You have to let it out.” I was bawling now. The sadness that came pouring out of me was so heavy I just couldn’t keep it in. Romina sat down on the bed next to me and held my hand. “This is a day for mourning. It will always be a day of mourning. Birth will come another day. The baby is saying, don’t mix the two. She wants her own day, one just for her! Take today to mourn. This baby is not coming out today—I hear her saying ‘No.’ ” She closed her eyes and smiled. “It’s funny, I can even see her in there, arms crossed over her chest!” The pain was unbearable. “Keep going,” Romina said. “Talk to her. Talk to them both. Let it go. Go into the pain so you can let it go.”

  I was shaking uncontrollably now, crying intensely. All the grief and pain I’d held inside, the determination to push away the pain and replace it with something else, came washing over me. Romina lay down on the bed and held me and for the longest time, I just cried.

  I stayed there for a long time, holding my hands on my gigantic belly, crying and missing my best friend, longing for my baby girl. At some point I must have fallen asleep because when I woke up, it was dark. I’d slept the whole afternoon. Romina had left—she must have taken the needles out in my sleep. I felt tired but clearheaded. All the anxiousness I’d felt around the birth had washed away. I went out on the balcony. The moon was rising over the desert. She was almost full. I tilted my head back and spoke to Andrea. “I miss you,” I said. “I miss you so much. I’m sorry I tried to make your day into something else. It just . . . hurts. You would have been her favorite aunt. It’s hard to miss you this much. But I can do it. I can live with missing you. I know that because . . . I am. I miss you every day. And I will for as long as I live.”

  I realized we can’t replace death with birth. They are intertwined, but not interchangeable. Before we can open a new chapter in our lives, we have to take care of the old. The chapters written before come along with us—we can’t just let them scatter in the wind. The love we’ve held and the pain we’ve felt shape us and become an integral part of who we are. I’d spent months intent on replacing a painful memory with a joyful one, only to realize that if I did, it would have been another loss. No matter how painful, there is also beauty to be found in grief, in feeling everything so intensely that we can’t help but share our aching hearts with the world. Grief shows us who we really are.

  Andrea’s death day will always be a day for mourning and in that moment I knew: I can choose to sit with pain. It doesn’t have to consume me. I don’t have to fear it, or escape it, or try to replace it. Sitting there under the stars, for the very first time since becoming pregnant, I could feel the presence of both Andrea and the baby. If I just leaned back a little bit, I could almost feel her right there, holding me. “Don’t worry, Macha,” she whispered. “I’m right here.”

  I took a deep breath, and as I exhaled, the baby moved. A big, slow, sweeping movement—under my hands, I could feel her turning. Through my tears I broke out in a smile because, again, I could see her. She didn’t have her arms crossed over her chest anymore. She was ready.

  And so was I.

  That night I slept better than I’d had in months, and when I woke up the next day I’d stopped obsessing about the timing of the birth. In a big way, I let go. A day later the moon was full. I woke up at four in the morning with what I intuitively knew were contractions. They were still gentle, caressing me, soft energetic surges running through my body. I kissed Dennis on the cheek and went downstairs, careful not to wake him. I had a feeling he might need his sleep. I lit candles all around the house, burned palo santo, and put on my favorite mantras. I texted my mom, It’s starting! It felt so important to share this with her. A part of me wished she was there to hold my hand and guide me through. For hours I danced around the kitchen, twirling my hips, undulating my spine, breathing deeply into the center of my being. The contractions grew more and more intense and when I had to pause to hold on to something to receive the energy, I decided it was time to get Dennis.

  I labored for twenty-four hours. It started off gentle but grew more and more intense with each hour’s passing. At one point, when I was sure I couldn’t take it anymore, Dennis brought me out into the garden. The pain was unbearable and I could feel myself losing my ground. How much longer would this last? Would I actually be able to do this? Dennis held me close. For the longest time we were slow dancing through contractions under the full moon. There was something about being outside . . . The moonlight calmed me. I’d been trying to escape the pain, dreading each contraction as it approached. Standing under the light of the full moon, I could hear Andrea speak to me. “Dive,” she said. “Meet it. Feel it. Everything you’ve ever been through has prepared you for this moment.” I was jolted out of the daze I was in and suddenly felt myself transported back to my ayahuasca experience. The pain is in the resistance. Allowing brings peace. Let. Go. When the next contraction came, instead of trying to make my way around the pain, I started moving into it. I took a huge breath and stepped toward the fire. Whenever a surge came, instead of escaping it, I went deep inside. Dennis was completely holding me and I could let go in his arms. Strangely, moving toward the pain brought about a way for me to cope, and I felt almost like a surfer, riding a wave. The waves of contractions reminded me of the waves of grief I’d experienced throughout the years and especially the year after Andrea died. I remember walking down the street, feeling completely normal, when suddenly something would remind me of her and grief would hit me so hard that I’d double over and cry in the middle of the sidewalk. Contractions were similar; they’d arrive and hit me hard. There was nowhere to go but within. During one specifically intense surge I realized: this was the gift Andrea truly gave me. The lesson I learned through her, the lesson I’ve kept learning, was exactly this, to not escape. To sit with pain. To move with it instead of against. This was the lesson that finally settled in me two days earlier, sitting on the balcony. The only way out is through. Standing there in the moonlight, I felt her presence so strongly.

  The midwife had been coming over to check in every few hours and had told me at the first checkup that I was four centimeters dilated (which felt like good news!). Now, eighteen hours later, I was sure I was at least eight or nine centimeters along. She had to be coming soon—the pain was otherworldly. The midwife looked at me. “I know this will be disappointing to hear, but you haven’t progressed. We’re still at four,” she said. Something inside of me cracked
. I just knew then and there: I needed help. The seventh key of the Path of Love process came to mind: ask for divine help. That was it—I needed help. This was not going to happen at home. I just knew. It was instinctual. I said, “I think we need to go to the hospital. It’s not going to happen at home. I want to go. Now.” Off to the hospital we went. We got in the car. I was scared that the contractions were going to get much harder as we drove down the bumpy roads from our house, but the strangest thing happened. The moment I got in the car, the moment we left the house and headed for the hospital, something in me completely let go and I was able to actually fall asleep. I’d done something I never do, something I’d struggled with my whole life: I’d asked for help. Going to the hospital, something so common that most women opt for when it comes to giving birth, had been the last thing I wanted and now became a deeply spiritual act. It was an act of giving up, of letting go of control. It was my surrender—cockroaches turning to white doves—it was a giving in to something greater than me. It was prayer. I understood—I couldn’t do this on my own. It didn’t mean that I couldn’t do it without a doctor present, but that I had to surrender to God. I had to let go. I didn’t have all the answers. There are certain things books can’t teach you. For me, the drive to the hospital was one of the most sacred experiences of my life. I felt like I was buzzing, sparkling with energy and light.

  We got to the hospital and it was absolutely quiet. There was not a single other birth happening in the entire place. As soon as we got out of the car contractions started again but the energy completely changed. From intense, loud, overwhelming . . . Everything got so, so quiet. My pain didn’t diminish—it was still getting more and more intense—but I could tell things were actually progressing now. I could feel how my body was opening up. Giving up and giving in allowed my body to open. I spent four hours sitting upright in the hospital bed in what felt like a deep, deep meditation. I had more space between contractions, and I was able to remain completely focused and in the moment. Dennis was half asleep on a chair. The room was so silent I could hear my heart beating. Suddenly, I felt like it was time. Changing positions on the bed, I started pushing. It was hard. In many ways, it was harder than the contractions. After what felt like an eternity the midwife exclaimed, “Here she comes! Give me your hands!” And I thought, My hands?! What? She guided my hands down. She was coming. Finally, she was coming. With one final push I pulled her out and brought her to my chest. She came out with her eyes wide open. She didn’t scream or cry; she just announced her arrival. Her heart beat against mine. She looked at me. All of time stopped.