On August 11, 2005 at 7:00 in the morning, I went into labor with my first and only child. My water broke - which contrary to popular belief is not really how labor usually begins - usually you have contractions first, and then, during the labor process, the water sac breaks and the baby is born. That water sac not only protects the baby, but it also is a safety barrier for the mother. A safety barrier I was missing for 42 hours. It wasn’t until August 13th that my son was born. He was so very healthy. He was so strong! He was also huge at 10 pounds and 2 ounces.
“That’s the biggest baby I’ve ever seen!” one of the nurses shrieked as my son finally made his way into the world.
His placenta was also gargantuan, also weighing in at 10 pounds…or so they thought…
On August 15th, I was discharged from the hospital. The nurse came in to check on me one last time. “Hmm,” she said. “You have a little bit of a fever.”
I thought that was odd, but they issued me my discharge papers and off I went.
As I struggled with my then husband to get our (not-little) new babe into his car seat for the first time, a lovely mother who had been discharged with me that morning came to our aid and showed us what we were doing wrong with the car seat.
She seemed fine, great actually, that heroic awesome mom who helped me. Any yet, I was worried; because I was decidedly not fine. I felt awful and I never feel awful. I’m rarely sick. I’ve never have had a broken bone. I’ve never even had a cavity! I rationalized that maybe I just had never really experienced pain before and that what I was feeling was normal. I saw a toddler in awesome mom’s car with her newborn and I thought that maybe childbirth is easier the second time around.
When I got home I struggled out of the car and staggered to the house. I stumbled to the bathroom and then a thick piece of flesh - at least six inches in length - fell out of me (I know now that it was the missing 2 ounces of placenta). I was panicked; but my then husband covered up all that goo and told me I was fine. I really wanted to believe him.
He helped me to the couch that sat in the summer sunshine. I layered myself with several blankets. It didn’t matter that it was August, I was freezing. My husband put our son in a laundry basket next to me and then he left, perhaps to get food, but I don’t think I was able to comprehend where he was going. Then it was as if time slowed down. I started to shake with the chills and then I remember my head banging against the couch several times in a bizarre state of movie-magic slow motion.
And then…it just stopped. I found myself surrounded by this beautiful soft white light. I was floating in silky white clouds. I was so beautifully warm and comfortable and perfectly at peace. I had never felt so relaxed. I had never felt so complete, so completely myself. I had no concerns for my future. My past had such perspective, and such clarity. There was only this beautiful peaceful moment, surrounded by softness.
“Whew! I’m so glad that’s over!” I said.
It blossomed quickly in my mind, however, that while I was relieved that the convulsions were over and the fever was gone, that was not what I meant.
I was glad that everything was over. It was as if I had spent 35 years studying feverishly for an exam and although I wasn’t sure if I had passed or failed, for better or for worse, I had taken the exam and it was over. It was done.
I was dead.
My peace was then suddenly replaced with incredible panic. “I’m dead!” the white light vibrated with that thought, because I wasn’t
in the white light, no, I had no body anymore, I
was the white light.
I had been a practicing pagan for many years at this point, but I was still staunchly monotheist. I believed in a one all encompassing female divinity that happily accepted any mantle or name you felt comfortable to give Her (even if it was male). I had always gravitated towards the warrior, protector stories of the Greek Goddess Artemis; but in my arrogance at that time, I believed that to be a silly construct of my human mind. The name Artemis, surely was beneath this divinity. But in this state of anxiety I gave into my humanity and I named my Goddess.
“Diana! Diana!” I called to Her. “Please! I want to live. I need to be a mother to my son!”
And just like a cliché movie ending twister, I gasped in that very dramatic and noisy breath of life, I sat up, and I gazed upon my sleeping son.
When my husband returned he did drag me to the doctor. When I described the fever and all that goo the doctor’s face turned notably white and he stammered, “You…you should be in a hospital! You…you shouldn’t be standing here!” But I was in fact standing in his office and I never was re-admitted to the hospital because there wasn’t a single thing wrong with me. There was no fever, no sepsis, nothing. I was just fine. They did prescribe me antibiotics just to be sure, but I wonder if I really needed them.
I had died that day. Yet Diana, She who is also called Artemis, She had heard my plea and had given me life. I spent a great deal of my postpartum researching Diana. It just so happens that She is also attributed as the Goddess of Childbirth (I had no idea); as She helped Her mother Leto give birth to Her twin, Apollo. Another interesting fact – my son’s birthday, August 13th is called “Diana’s Day.”
August 15, 2005 remains as one of the most spiritual experiences of my life to date. It is a day that I reflect upon often. I still struggle with what I learned that day. I am still processing the magnitude. What I learned was that
life and death are largely a choice. That knowledge is fraught with heavy responsibility. I didn’t just choose to live, I chose to live
this life – my life – as it is.
That is sometimes very difficult for me to accept, because I am so often disappointed with my life and more precisely, myself. One of my greatest shames is that I thought I never wanted to be a mother. My childhood was in some ways difficult and I did not want to continue that legacy. I had been told that I had trouble connecting with people, and so I was not confident that I could connect with a child. But I was desperate for the love I lacked in my childhood, and I was wooed by a man who wanted a child, and begrudgingly…begrudgingly, I gave him one. That same man who left me as I died, left me before that child he demanded from me reached his first birthday. In my darkest hours, that shame courses through me. It is then that I tell myself that I never wanted to be a parent, and certainly not a single parent. And certainly not a single parent who works at night, and on weekends, and holidays, and birthdays, and who often has to work late, sometimes 48 hours late… In my darkest hours, I tell myself that I am precisely the lousy mother I never wanted to be.
And yet, when I was dead I called to Diana and I said, “
Please. Please I want to live. I need to be a mother to my son.”
I didn’t say “My son needs me.” I said, “
I need,” that was what I said. “
I need to be a mother to my son.”
The truth is, my son really doesn’t need me. Yes, absolutely, we have a great relationship (one I never believed I was capable of). I have made a positive impact on his life. I am a decent mother, and sometimes maybe even better than just decent. Yet, had I chosen to let go on August 15, 2005, my son would have continued on without me. I may not be a fan of my son’s father but if I acknowledge the truth again, he left me, not his son. His father loves him. My son would have been cared for and supported. When I begged my Goddess to live, I wasn’t begging for my son, it was all about me. It was for my experience. I chose this life. I chose to be a mother.
I am still bemused by the consequences of that choice and more importantly, the responsibility of that choice. I chose
this life. Not only did I choose to be a mother, I also chose, much to my chagrin, to be a single parent. Not only did I choose to be a single parent, I chose to be that single parent who worked at night, and on weekends, and holidays, and birthdays. Those were in fact, my choices. I am responsible for all of that.
I have had people try to argue with me that I could not have possibly known that my husband would leave me. However, the writing was on the wall that my marriage was not made to last. There were all kinds of warning signs, not to mention a few blunt comments from a close and brazen friend. I however, chose to ignore those signs, my intuition and my feelings. When he demanded a child, it wasn’t a request, there wasn’t a discussion; it was an argument. I could have divorced him then but I chose to be a mother instead. I was ultimately the one that made that decision. I was the one who made the counter demand - I would have a child, but it had to be before I turned 35. On my 34th birthday, I remember distinctly that I said to my then husband with nothing short of disdain in my voice, “I’m reminding you that I’m 34 today.” I turned 35 a month before my son was born. I cannot hold my son’s father accountable for that. That was my choice.
It was also my choice to accept a career that had me working nights, and weekends, and holidays and birthdays, etc. etc. My husband crooned that it would be stable and secure; there would be benefits and oh so much money. My close and brazen friend warned me there would be consequences for my family with this career. My heart warned me that this career was not going feed my creative personality. There were once again multiple signs that I would sacrifice a great deal of personal happiness for stability and security in addition to the desires and needs of my son; but I ignored them all, along with my intuition and my feelings when I made my choice.
It would be easy to lay the blame elsewhere and whine that I had
no choice. I could blame my once husband for the demise of our marriage, but I had a heavy role to play there. I do not think talking about our conflicts would have resolved our issues; because the reality I must face is that I chose a husband who was not the right partner for me; nor was I a good partner for him. I knew it from the beginning. I chose to ignore our conflicts – I buried my head in the sand. I also chose my profession. I chose security and stability over creativity. I knew it would ultimately make me very unhappy, but again I buried my head in the sand. I also knew I was dying the moment that nurse told me that I had a fever. But I chose to ignore my own instinct.
I ignored my own instinct because I think I wanted someone else to accept responsibility. I wanted the consequences to be someone else’s problem.
I think I say that I have no choice when what I really want is to shift responsibility. The day I died I learned that as much as I wanted to blame someone else, there was only myself to blame. I had been given all the information I needed. I had been given multiple signs in addition to my instinct and feelings. I chose to bury my head in the sand, until I was faced with the ultimatum of no sand, at all.
“Diana! Diana! Please, I want to live. I need to be a mother to my son.”
Diana gave me life on August 15, 2005, of that I am sure, but it was because I made my choice.
I wanted – I needed – to be a mother to my son. That is profound, just that, but something else that I find interesting is that it was the one time I made a choice based on my own instinct, and feelings.
When I ignored my instincts about my marriage, it resulted in a very ugly divorce. When I ignored my instincts about my current career, it resulted in a diagnosis of depression. I based my choice not on what was within me, with my own instinct and feelings; but external stimulus and information that largely had nothing to do with me. I nearly refused to become a mother based on external stimulus and information as well. I assumed that I would repeat the pattern of my childhood. I assumed that I had no choice there. Yet, when there was nothing of me, except my instinct and my feelings, the one thing I needed and wanted most was to be a mother.
I am responsible for my choices, and actually, what I would consider as the worst of those choices came with some great fringe benefits. My job is seriously lacking in creativity but boy that money is great and it does afford me to come up with some creative vacations. My marriage may have been doomed from the beginning, but boy, oh boy did it give me the most wonderful boy. Conversely, motherhood is not without its counter as well. As I said, in my darkest hours, I recall all of those external stimuli and situations in attempt to convince myself that I was wrong to want to be a mother – that I made a bad choice. Although, they are only hours after all. The ultimate truth is that when I had the courage to tap into my own instinct and feelings,
that choice lead to the greatest joy I have ever known. It makes me wonder what I would be capable of if I reached for that divine clarity
in my life, rather than only on the edge of death.
I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that death is easy. It’s more than easy, it’s sublime. Life in contrast is not easy. A great deal of the time it’s not anything even close to sublime. It’s complicated and confusing and downright messy. Life is filled with goo; but what I have learned is that some of that goo is sticky cotton candy kisses. Life is full of choices – which leads to responsibility and repercussions, and then more choices. Maybe that is why death is so peaceful, it is the last choice anyone ever has to make.
This article was largely inspired by
Errol McLendon’s one man show the Final (?) Journey that was performed at the
Life Force Arts Center in correlation with their gallery show
Art and the 9 Levels of Self.
I was also moved and inspired by the book
Mastering the Art of Quitting by
Peg Streep and Alan Bernstein.
