Annika's Birth Story

(warning, this is a graphic, uncensored natural birth story)

To start Annika's story is to begin with a surprise. We had always planned to have four children. But after Kat, it never seemed like the right time to plan our last baby, and I was getting older, already having fertility issues and coming from a family with a history of early menopause. We couldn't really plan to have one, but every month, I mourned when my period came. I knew I wasn't done having children.

Finally, on Beltane (May Day) of 2015, after a couple years of not bothering with protection because it seemed obvious we didn't need it, I teased my husband, "It's Beltane, and I'm ovulating. You know that we're asking for it."

He replied with, "I'm not worried."

As the time for my period approached and I started getting crampy and PMS-y, I messaged one of my best mom-friends and cried that I didn't want to get my period. She consoled me, understanding that I meant that I wanted to be pregnant, but I thought my husband wasn't on board with that, and I had been spending months mourning the loss of the dream of four. To make matters worse, my mom-sister, the mom of Kat's twin, had discovered she was expecting.

I took a pregnancy test just to get the idea of the baby out of my head. It was negative. But I felt off, no longer like my period was coming, having clear pregnancy symptoms (that I blamed on my mom-sister as sympathy symptoms) and I dug it out of the trash (knowing that anything I saw was totally invalid)... to find a pink line. I started obsessing over the color. Evaporation lines don't have the dye color in them.

My period still didn't come, and I took another test. Brandon came to say good-bye on his way to work while I still had a minute left on the test. I tried to stall him without telling him what I was doing. Finally, my 3 minutes was up, and I looked down at the two pink lines.

I spent the next week freaking out because I didn't know how he felt about it, and I wanted the baby so badly. I finally brought it up and found out he was happy, too, just trying to figure out the logistics of how we'd manage everything.

One thing I knew: as tight as money was, I wanted my midwife from Kat's birth again. I wanted my doula, too, but both were semi-retired. Nevertheless, I messaged both. My doula didn't catch on that I was asking because I was pregnant right away, and immediately offered when she found out I was. My midwife was available for late January/early February. The cost was... daunting, but I knew it needed to be her. I know other perfectly good midwives, but I needed Rachel.

Fast forward through a horrible first trimester that I thought was going to kill me -- not hyperbole, but I was worried that my heart was going to give out under the stress, and I was too weak to walk further than the bathroom and back, prepare food to feed myself, etc. Past the second trimester where things got better, but were still difficult. Through the easy, comfortable third trimester, where I had adapted to the SPD and barely felt pregnant. I was still quite comfortably pregnant, happy to be pregnant when everything started.

Normally, I have a lot of prodromal labor, but I really only had two or three sets of a little over 2 hour sessions of it. I was still having painless Braxton-Hicks-feeling contractions right up through labor. I had a feeling through quite a bit of my pregnancy that she might come early, and this strange idea that it would start with my water breaking -- something that hasn't happened to me before. I also figured she would either be my smallest or my biggest ever baby. I was, however, 'realistically' expecting her at the beginning of February, hoping Naomi wouldn't have to share her birth month.

Prodromal labor sucks

Annika had other plans.

I woke up on January 20th at 1:20 am, thinking that I was peeing. I quickly got out of bed and hurried to the bathroom, discarding my soaked pantiliner and underwear on the floor. I noted that there was no smell or color of urine and wondered if it was my water leaking. It was a tiny amount, though. I decided that leaving it would let it sit out to smell later to see if I was imagining things. I went back to bed and apologized to my husband that I'd peed in bed, but I hadn't gotten any in the bed at least.

At 2:40-something, I woke up again, and felt a rush of liquid. Thinking that I was peeing myself again, I hurried back to the bathroom. I felt a pop as I crossed onto the linoleum, and I soaked through the Always Infinity pad I was wearing as well as my underwear. The fluid was clear and smelled sweet. I stared at it as I sat on the toilet and waited to see if more came, starting to worry. Where were my contractions?

I decided to call my midwife, feeling awful about it being the middle of the night. I told Brandon that the baby was coming, that my water had broken, as I collected my phone and returned to the toilet to pass more water and call my midwife. It turned out Rachel was in Jefferson City for a conference, which was 150 miles away. In a winter storm of snow and ice.

We talked, and she asked me to check baby's position (as she had spent most of her time transverse up under my ribs, although she always moved down for midwife appointments). I told her I'd check her heart rate with my Doppler, too, to make sure everything seemed okay in there, which made her happy as she'd forgotten I had one. She told me to call her back as soon as I felt the need to call my doula.

Instead, I texted her that Annika was "high transverse" because I felt her just under my ribs, and found her heart high on my fundus, on the right side. She loved being ROT/right oblique, which drove me a little nuts because she used it to sneak back up to transverse over and over, despite me trying inversions, etc. to get her in launch position. I also put on gloves and tried to feel for the baby. In retrospect, I believe I felt her head, although I didn't know that was what I was feeling at the time.

This scared my midwife, who'd just listened to a case about a compromised cord in a transverse baby, and with my meager, painless contractions, she was worried that the baby might have her cord either wrapped around her body (as she was a very active little starfish in there and kept bouncing back up like she was tethered) or about to prolapse. So she sent me to the hospital for a position check and monitoring.

She asked if I wanted her to send her assistant to meet me there, and I did. Once I was done with that, I sat on the floor and cried my eyes out. I didn't want another cesarean. The idea of facing my bedroom stairs, or even trying to get in my house, while recovering from major abdominal surgery, sounded impossible. All my work for an HBAC appeared to be going out the window, and I had to process and deal with all the feelings that invoked. Brandon held me while I worked through it.

"They're going to take my baby and wash off all her vernix and bathe her and do everything without me and not let me see her or hold her," I sobbed in between other fears.

Once I was in control enough to speak sensibly again, I called my doula and told her what was going on and she planned to meet me at the hospital, too. I repacked the emergency bag after removing all my cloth diapers that I knew wouldn't fit a 39-weeker. We got the kids ready and left, exhausted and worried.

On the way there, I berated Annika for her positioning and pleaded with her to move down. With my water broken, there was no way to move her externally. I told her that we would be seeing Rachel soon, so shouldn't she get ready for an appointment? I felt her move down to oblique while we stopped for gas to make it to the hospital. I still wasn't having pain or any intensity with my contractions.

I kept prodding her and pleading as we went in, so not wanting to have her still be transverse when I got checked. I was also scared of how they were going to react to me leaving if she wasn't. I decided to tell them my water had only broken at 4am (it was 5am by the time we got there) so they wouldn't worry too much and harass me. After all, if she was still in that position, it didn't matter. Babies can't come out if they're lying sideways across the exit.

After trying to give a urine sample and only producing a trickle, I was put on monitors, although they messed up the contraction monitor and put it on my flab instead of my fundus. I had my husband, doula and Lexi, the midwife's assistant, there to help me through the most emotionally difficult part of my labor. Brandon waited with the girls while I was checked because the room was very small (they only wanted one person to go in with me, but the look on my face when they said that got me my whole party until it was time to actually do stuff).

I was at a 2, 50% effaced, and her head was down (+2 if I remember correctly). The resident also insisted on testing me for broken waters, which I thought was hilarious and ridiculous. I offered to show her the full adult diaper I'd worn over. I'd already soaked through both my samples and a towel. While baby wasn't engaged, her head was down, and that was a huge relief. And I tested positive for broken waters. They decided that no ultrasound was needed. Then the misplaced contraction monitor made itself a nuisance by not picking up the beginning or end of my contractions and making it look like I was having late decels.

My midwife, in the meantime, unbeknownst to me at first, was driving back as fast as she could through the weather in the middle of the night/buttcrack of dawn, to come up to check on me and be there for me. Lexi texted her everything that was going on and passed on her advice to me (which was to wait and be monitored). When they said late decels, I looked them up to understand why that mattered, on alert to the word "decels" as that's a standard bullshit technique to force an unnecessary cesarean.

When they said 'placental insufficiency,' my BS meter blew up. I'd grown 2 super healthy babies' placentas for over 41 weeks with no insufficiency. I wasn't buying that on a 39 weeker who had shown no problems whatsoever where I had been on a high protein diet and worked to take care of said placenta.

I said, "You're not bullying me into a cesarean, but thanks for trying." They quickly backpedaled and said that they had no intention of doing that and said their cesarean rate was really low (my midwife said that that was true -- although incredibly unlikely that it was their stated '10%' -- because they transferred their high risk patients to another facility). But when Rachel said that I needed to stay and be monitored, I did, even if I was dubious (she was still scared about the possibility of the cord being tangled up, and late decels would certainly mean that something could be up with the cord).

I moved the monitors to better positions (I kept moving the Doppler monitor to chase Annika down, as she was trying to 'run' from it as she had the whole pregnancy, and she was 'running' right into my pelvis, where she belonged), and the contractions started actually being picked up. I noticed that she kicked the contraction monitor at the right moment to cause it to draw what looked like a pregnant woman. Her kick made a boob after a contraction-face while the next contraction made the belly. We got a laugh out of it.

It was obvious before very long that she was quite healthy in there. My blood pressure was insanely high, so I removed a layer of shirts from under it, and it 'magically' dropped (I'll give it a bit of white coat syndrome, too, but it was largely that they were reading me through two shirts). My midwife arrived and talked with the on call doctor about what was going on, looked over the monitors and asked to check me (she asked both me and the OB).

I was now a 3, and she was definitely head down (and going off how I had to keep moving the Doppler monitor, she was moving down with contractions pretty steadily), and my midwife thought she felt a little hand up there, too. My midwife hypothesized that perhaps Annika popped her own water grabbing at things up there, and that was why it didn't accompany my normal contractions.

We decided that everything was okay, and I requested to leave AMA. Before we left, the new on call doctor came and introduced himself in case we would be back later, talked to my midwife, and overall, they were all very nice about me leaving. He just wanted to make sure I was close by (I was 12 minutes from the hospital), and then we left for my house. Tara, my doula, did a food run to McDonald's on the way.

Last pregnancy pic, 39 weeks, 5 days, by Lilly

Kat and Tara, who was there when she came into the world ♥

We all gathered at my house, where my contractions continued to be at most, a bit crampy. I had a few good ones at the hospital, but they petered out. What followed was a long waiting game. My midwife went home to nap, leaving her assistant and my doula. Eventually, Tara had to go, though, because her son was competing in a tournament that weekend down in Texas (I got to see some awesome videos of his trampoline prowess at the tournament later, which was awesome!).


I don't remember how musical care providers went exactly, but we managed to get everyone some rest and had a long day of nothing really happening. We talked about how long we could wait with my waters ruptured, if/when I would want to try something to move things along (blue and black cohosh, which I wasn't on board with because of the blood pressure issues I was having and my ongoing heart issues) and the same with antibiotics (if we entered a prolonged rupture of membranes stage). I kept having a mix of painless and difficult contractions with long periods of nada.

Eventually, we all got some sleep. After everyone left, I turned on Closing Time by Semisonic and tried to dance her down. It's always been a birth song to me. I also painted my toenails, joking that it was "in case she was offended by my naked toes." I'd had painted toenails for every birth. I'd had a nurse during my first labor joke that she always knew when a mama was really in labor when she saw her toenails done after seeing mine.


I tried various sitting, kneeling and lying positions trying to get her to move out of ROT (right occiput transverse) into a better position to come out and to prevent her from getting back up into her favorite spot under my ribs. She was content to take her time. While I got sleep, strong, good contractions woke me up twice an hour. I had also taken a shower before bed to try to tolerate the contractions I was having and relax and stimulate oxytocin via orgasm, but I only got a couple good contractions from that and couldn't tolerate my nipples being touched. Every time I fell asleep, my contractions picked up. So relaxing and sleeping seemed ideal.

The next day, Rachel was quite disappointed that no call for birthing had come in the night, and we resumed our watch. She requested to check me, and I considered it. I asked myself if I could handle knowing that I wasn't progressing as fast as I'd like, or worse, at all, and the answer was a resounding "No." It would devastate me. I needed to trust my body to keep working. So I declined.

We tried some pregnancy tea, double bagging it because red raspberry leaf usually stimulates strong contractions in me. I figured the stinging nettle could help calm down my blood pressure while it was at it. I had a nosebleed at one point while talking to Lexi, just out of the blue, and scared her. It wasn't my first this pregnancy, and I wasn't sure if it was blood pressure or dry, winter air combined with a cold and stuffy nose. The tea didn't really work, and I decided to consent to trying the cohoshes.

Rachel gave me a homeopathic low dose to start, having the full herbs ready if that didn't work. Oh, it worked all right. I went from having contractions every half hour (as they'd been all night) to every 10 minutes. My bestie, Lesley, came over and hung out for a while. I enjoyed all the socialization, but with the cohoshes doing their thing despite me thinking a homeopathic dose would do nothing, I started entering labor land a bit. I was noisy and uncomfortable during the contractions. She kept giving me the doses, which looked like little sugary fish eggs, and labor moved along swimmingly. Placebo or genuinely working, it worked quite well.

Eventually, Lesley had to leave, and by then, I was up to about every 6 minutes. I agreed to an antibiotic push because my water had been broken so long, and I was planning a water birth. I didn't want to take any unnecessary risks. I was also hoping that it would prevent any retained placenta infections this time.

While she was inserting the IV, she almost blew a vein, and I chastised her and told her she got a C because it hurt. She, however, saved the vein and got the antibiotics pushed, so I upgraded her to a B for that, though she'd tried to negotiate for higher. Marks lost for pain in patient. I did have very little bruising, though. So I'll give her a B+.

I asked Brandon to go take the liner up to the pool, and Rachel said no. I pointed out that I hadn't asked him to fill it, just take the liner up and she took back her no. She just didn't want my labor to stall out, but I knew that it was really going now and nothing was going to stop it.

When I hit every 3 minutes and could no longer keep up reading Facebook posts from friends stalking my labor, I went upstairs before I wouldn't be able to get there. I had to stop on the stairs and get through a nasty contraction, and I felt transition approaching.

I got upstairs, and everyone started preparing everything. I, in the meantime, was miserable. I had been very noisy through my contractions, but seeing the empty pool and knowing I was hitting transition made me afraid I wouldn't get my water birth... again. I collapsed onto the girls' bed, into their pile of stuffed animals, pillows and blankets. I hugged Lilly's giant teddy "Big Bear" and had one last noisy contraction before I surrendered to transition. Rachel said it was time to fill the tub, and I cried that they had waited too long. She assured me that they hadn't, and Lexi came over to monitor me, apply lovely counter pressure and comfort me as I cried into Big Bear, too worn out to be noisy through contractions anymore. I just wanted to save my strength for what I knew was coming.

I found the contractions became more tolerable when I moved to lie on my side

Lilly, now officially part of my birth team, filled the pool as fast as possible, and Rachel asked one last time if she could check me before I got in. I gave her a grumpy, "No," as I made a beeline for my warm, watery happy spot. The pool didn't look very full, but it was still being filled, and when I stepped in, there was several inches of water that I didn't see, so I was engulfed quickly. It doesn't show in the pictures, but I was perfectly buried in the water. It was a strange effect, but the water was covering my belly except when I stuck it out on purpose.

These two booked front row seats for the birth, but weren't participating

 

Things were in full swing now, but the water relaxed me completely between contractions. Rachel said to me, "Now, there are two rules for the pool: One, no passing out. Two, you get out to birth the placenta."

"She was planning on that," Brandon answered her while I tried to say the same. I echoed him. I got grumpy with my contractions after that. I was quite ready to be done with this stage.



My first contraction in the water I was pushing on her, saying "down, down," and then exclaimed, "The enemy gate is down!"

Brandon said, "I don't think we want her blowing up any planets."

I said, "I feel like a planet!"

"We don't want her blowing you up, either."

"She already did!"

Everyone got a good laugh, and Rachel started talking about how she wanted to make a collection of all the famous quotes she'd heard during labors. Lexi agreed that it would be an awesome book. I continued with my "down, down" mantra, and sang a little Sugar, We're Going Down under my breath. I considered asking someone to move the curtain on the skylight so I could see the sky, but I was afraid it would make the room cold.

This is where things are now foggy. I waited a bit too long to write this part of the story, and birth amnesia has started setting in. Part of that is because I was falling half-asleep between contractions. Brandon mentioned that Rachel had said no passing out, and she said, "She's sleeping. That's different. That's actually the best thing to do right now. We want her to do that."*

I, on the other hand, was now absolutely done with labor. I was howling, "I'm done! I'm done!" during some contractions. Between, I tried, "Some gas and air would be great now."

Rachel replied that we weren't in a state that allowed that (yet), and there was some discussion of that being done in the US, but only in hospitals to start. Another contraction hit, and I returned to yelling about it hurting and shouted, "An eight! My pain is an eight!" quite cranky that no one else had to be doing this part, and they were all having such a good time -- as far as I was concerned, far too good of a time. (Looking back, that's a good thing! Everything was going smoothly!) I kept reaching down to check if I could feel anything yet and bumped against my clitoris. The pain receded, so I started pressing on it and growled, "You want oxytocin? Here! Have it!" It made the pain more manageable.

"Okay, I'll take an epidural now!" I yowled during a particularly awful contraction. Everyone laughed sympathetically.

"Afraid we can't do that," Lexi said.

"Hospital wouldn't either," I said, because I knew I was about to start pushing. The urge to push wasn't obvious, but I recognized that it was time. I had been asked multiple times during labor if I was pushing, which I confirmed with the qualifier that it wasn't time, it just felt good to do. The water was hot again, so they started adding more, which I didn't like. It was too warm, and it was time to push. I rolled around in the water, kicking at the side of the tub and screamed. Rachel chastised me.

"You're going to wreck your voice!"

"Good! I want to wreck it! I don't care! I have to scream. I did with Kat, too. I have to." I babbled frantically. "I don't want to do this anymore. I want off the ride! I'm done!"

Then another contraction hit, and the water temperature pissed me off, and I yelled to turn if off, that I didn't want it as I flipped over to the half-squat/kneel that I used to bring out Kat. I reached down again to feel for her and support my perineum as I shouted "I'm serious! I'm done!" and pushed. I yelled that she was coming and felt her hit my perineum. I could feel her on the other side from above my vagina down to my anus, and thought, 'She's huge!'

Then I went down to hands and knees and pushed harder, and she popped out. I was filled with amazement as I felt her soft head fill my hand. Her tiny soft head. It had seemed so big a second ago. I had pushed her to the cheeks, I heard someone say. Rachel was instructing Lilly on how to help and to reach and feel. I moved off the jelly feeling stuff (probably the caul) from her head and pushed again, still on the same contraction that I started with. The rest of her head popped out.

I sighed in relief, "That's better." Everyone laughed, and someone reminded me that I wasn't over yet. I replied, "I know, but that feels better."

You can see Lilly's hair next to Rachel and her arm reaching to feel the baby

I think Rachel asked me to push some more, and I mumbled something about physiological pushing and that I wasn't quite ready yet. I moved around and said, "She's stuck." It felt like minutes passed while I wiggled and pushed, and then there was a little pop, and she exploded out of me.

There was a lot of talking at that moment that I don't remember. Then Rachel said that they were passing the baby to me, and I moved to reach down and grab her, fall back and pull her out of the water in amazement. I think people were telling me what to do, but I just reacted on instinct.

She looked like she wanted to go to sleep, so I coaxed her to wake up and cough and cry out the fluid in her lungs while wrapping the towel around her that I was passed and rubbing the amazing amount of vernix she was covered in into her skin to both rub it in and stimulate her. I'd never had such a 'cheesy' baby, but I remembered worrying specifically about the hospital taking that experience away from me.

It wasn't long before I was coaxed out of the water onto the bed so I could birth the placenta. Lexi reported that she was born at 5:55, and that her head had come out at 5:54. So it had been much faster than I experienced, although I had known the whole thing happened very fast. It was within the space of just two contractions. I only pushed four or five times.

We all gathered around and said hello to the baby. Crawling onto the bed, I was very aware of the cord still inside me and cautioned everyone to go slowly so it wasn't pulled on. Shortly after, I pushed out the placenta, but the membranes were kind of stuck inside. We waited and worked them out, hoping nothing was left inside (a bit was, but we managed to avoid an infection, and I passed them a few days later, and then the rest a few days after that). I think they probably got stuck on my scar.

I asked that we wait to cut the cord until the placenta was out so I could see her attached. There wasn't a good angle for me to get a picture this time, but that's okay. I'll spare you readers the placenta pictures I did take. Brandon hid while we went over all of that. Naomi was offered the cord to cut, but as she'd gotten to trim Kat's, I thought it was only fair Kat get to cut Annika's.

I was so happy to have my baby

We had already announced her name during the labor to the birth team, but Brandon posted on Facebook when she was born for us, announcing it to everyone. She was very tired and went to sleep rather quickly. I tried to get her to nurse, but she wasn't interested. She woke up to cough up the stuff from her lungs, and I tried some more to get her to nurse. Finally, Lexi said something about my finger, and I remembered having to get past babies started with the finger, and I pestered her into sucking on that. Once she did, I pulled it out of her mouth and offered to nurse, promising that she would like it. She took to it quickly after that.

Brandon left to get me a celebratory turkey sandwich from Subway. When he returned we got Annika's weight and other stats. She screamed a little monkey scream at being taken from me, but calmed down okay. Lexi and I were guessing she'd be high 6lbs or low 7lbs. Rachel weighed her and said, "You fail! Seven pounds, thirteen ounces." Annika was 20 3/4" long. She's my tiniest baby.

From waters fully broken to birth was 39 hours. I was in active labor for 5 hours. It was a long couple of days any way you look at it, for such an amazing little package, who decided she would come at a surprise time to meet her grandma as soon as she could, as she was passing from this world and had held out all this time to meet her.

She was my longest labor, my tiniest baby, and is my best nurser. She's a calm, happy little baby who loves practicing her smiles already. My long awaited last baby, who came into the world with, of all things, amber-brown eyes that turned blue, facial bruising that healed up quickly and an elfin/Vulcan ear on one side and 'goblin' ear on the other. Welcome to the family, Annika Shuri! ♥

*Quotes are approximate based on my memory

 

*

Wordless Wednesday: Announcement

Virtual Concert: Seether in Cleaveland, Ohio

Seether is one of my favorite bands, but they weren't coming close enough to KC for me to see them this year. However, their concert last night was broadcast through Yahoo! Live Nation, and my sis (I adopted her years ago) linked me the moment she found out. 

We were able to sit in two different states (she in Michigan, I in Missouri) and enjoy our first concert together with a band we both love. Not only did we not have to go out (which was great, as getting to something like that is difficult for both of us), but we could 'hear' each other just fine through Facebook messenger, and I spent the whole concert taking pictures of the feed to send her while we commented happily.

We noticed that Shaun's beard has taken on a life of its own (I especially noticed because my husband recently trimmed his). Also, there were a couple times where one band member helped another drink during the session, and I commented on how sweet they were, taking care of each other like that.

It was a lot of fun, and I was really glad for the opportunity. I enjoyed some Jack Daniels Tennessee Fire (cinnamon whiskey) during the concert and sent her tipsy video clips of me singing along just to add to the experience (no, you don't get those; you're welcome).

This was one of my favorite shots

So a great big thank you to both Seether and Yahoo! Live Nation!

This one was the most popular on Instagram

From Enthusiastic to Exhausted: Activists Burn Out, Too

So, activism. It's awesome, important, and it can and has changed the world, over and over. It's comprised of activists. Activists are people. And people get disillusioned.

I've been an activist for one cause or another as long as I can remember (hence the vagueness -- this isn't about one cause, but rather, having a cause). In that time, I've noticed in both myself and in the vast majority of other activists a pattern of interest, enthusiasm and eventual burnout.

The first, and absolutely most important part of any cause is awareness. I'm sure you've seen lots of 'raising awareness' campaigns. The typical cynical (burnout) response to this is: Awareness already exists. Time to move on. Now, if we're talking about a major disease like cancer that everyone actually does know about, maybe that's true (unless we're talking prevention or healing options). But with most things? Nope.

Think back to how you first got into a cause. You learned that it existed. Someone took the time to explain to you why it was important. Perhaps they did that through a conversation; maybe it was a link to resources about the cause. Either way, you then learned something and became excited to help others share that thing.

On the opposite end of the timeline is the burnout who has decided that if you don't agree with them, they don't have time for you. These people are the death of a cause. That cynicism is a cancer on the whole topic. They are as much 'part of the problem' as that which the cause is fighting against. And I specifically chose cancer for a reason. Because their mentally exhausting cynicism spreads, infects others. Worse, there has been an increasing trend, especially among certain causes, for those tumors to deliberately infect others, posting about how education is a waste of time and anyone who doesn't already know is 'part of the problem.'

Moving past my own irritation at watching people turn away from becoming activists because of those jerks, I wanted to talk about the path to becoming (and avoiding) the anti-cause.

The Evolution of an Activist

Awareness: The cause exists! Wow! I'm learning!
Becoming Part Of The Solution: I'm involved! Oh, this person doesn't understand. I'll help them learn about it (repeat this no less than 500 times with new people).
Involved: I sure love this cause. I don't understand why other people don't see how obvious it is. This should be a universal goal. Man, there sure are a lot of people who don't know about it.
Burnout: Fuck, people. How do you not already know about this now? Ugh. I'm tired of explaining it. I've explained it fifty million times! I've put my all into this cause and I feel like it's not doing anything. It still exists. The need for it doesn't seem like it's ever going to go away! Humanity sucks.
Reaction 1: (Jaded) I'm done with the cause.
Reaction 2: (Healthy) I'm going to keep going, but I'm done with new recruits. Maybe I should look into self-care. I'll leave the awareness to others.
Reaction 3: (Ideal) I'm going to write a blog post or find one I really love to educate people by just linking them without writing a deep explanation from now on. I'm going to look into self-care and remember that this isn't futile, it just takes time to cause such a big change. After all, women didn't get the vote overnight. Segregation wasn't ended overnight. I just have to keep going and find more time to take care of myself. In the meantime, I'll do my part for the cause without letting it suck the life out of me.
Reaction 4: (Toxic) People suck. If they don't agree with me, I'm not wasting my time on them. I did my part, and it did nothing. I know the cause requires work, so I'm just going to keep on going. I'll make vague social media posts about how people who do this thing suck and flame anyone who doesn't just automatically agree with me. They're part of the problem, after all. I'm doing something about it.
Reaction 5: (Healthy) Continued involvement with the cause, but reduced or changing tactics.
Reaction 6: Option C people who refuse to fit into categories.

Do you see the issue? Activism often involves a lot of repetition. It can hit the point where you feel like with all of that, everyone in the world must have heard about the cause by now (especially for people whose causes touch on abuses they have suffered their whole life -- and being part of the cause does not obligate you to educate: it does obligate you not to literally tell people to fuck off and die for asking to learn more).

Newsflash: children are growing into teenagers and adults every day. These are people who need to reach the awareness stage. Assuming they've already been reached is erroneous and unhelpful. Being angry at them for not being reached is counterproductive.

Activism can be exhausting. There are tons of resources for self-care because of this. I understand being sick of answering the same question that it feels like everyone should know by now. That's why I leave that to the shiny new activists who have the information and are eager to help. I have a collection of links to send to people to get them started. I assume anyone asking a question genuinely doesn't know. That's the most important, I think.

I want to thank all of the bloggers out there who approach their cause with this in mind -- there's been many times when I wanted to learn something more, but was put off by the attitude of the people who exposed me to the topic. I won't even be involved in many causes that I feel are important because I don't want to be around the tumors that have become the front of the cause.

Don't be a tumor. If you can't educate, at least don't give the cause bad publicity by associating it with your refusal to educate. If you can't avoid using inflammatory language that causes people to shut down, please stick to sharing links from more reasonable people. You hurt your cause as much as people who are actively against it, if not more so.

We can make the world a better place. But we can't do that by alienating others. And we need to watch out for burnout and take care of ourselves, too. It's not selfish. Selfish is allowing yourself to become someone whose soapbox is so high, no one not standing on another soapbox can hear you.

We're in this together -- be it a cause or just this planet we're all living on. Let's act like it.

What's in a Name?

Me, newborn

This entry has been updated as of March 9, 2020, to reflect who I am 5 years later.

I've had to write this so many times that I think it's time I just make a blog post about it. I wasn't born with my pre-transition name. Well, I'm a married person who was assigned female at birth in the US, so there's a good chance that's true, but I mean my whole name.

My mom was asleep after giving birth when I was named by the other person on my birth certificate. I know people who think my name was cute, but honestly, I think if you give your child a name that means 'tumultuous' or has otherwise negative connotations, you're a jerk. Just for the record. I don't mean an unusual name (I love unusual names), but a name that most people identify as a negative trait.

No, I'm not telling you what it was, sorry. Part of the reason it was changed was to protect me, and honestly, the name triggers memories of verbal/emotional abuse. I was mocked by my friends' parents, my teachers, everyone. They thought it was so funny to talk about what a problem child I must be -- because of my name. Something that was thrust upon me within hours of coming into the world. They didn't care one bit that it hurt my feelings or gave me a label to aspire to (after all, if I'm already judged as 'bad'...).

So, when I was seven and that other name on my birth certificate was driven out of the country because he was a disgusting -- let's just stop there -- my name was changed to protect me, as he'd supplied my surname as well and neglected to fill in the middle name field.

So I got a shiny new name via common usage. This was no problem until the Patriot Act went through and the DMV only began accepting court ordered name changes. Suddenly, even though everything except my birth certificate used my legal name, the DMV would not issue me a new ID because I accidentally let my last one expire.

My birth certificate was never changed because that's an unattainable expense when you live in hand to mouth poverty. So was the whole court order process. My mom couldn't afford it, and really, neither could I until recently. However, in 2013, my husband did ask his work-provided lawyer to start the process for all of that with our tax refund... Never happened. That's a whole different rant. This repeated with several lawyers since. They keep dropping my case because it's complicated.

As a result, I don't have an ID. I can't travel, except in a car, I can't withdraw from my bank account except through the ATM (nor open a new account). I can't purchase alcohol if I get carded (I'm 34 -- at the time this was originally written -- and get carded 90% of the time). I can't go to a club where alcohol is served.

Further, when my second child was three, she got into my carefully guarded and supposedly out of reach and difficult to open drawer containing all my important paperwork. She lost my birth certificate (which was the original, tucked into the one issued by the hospital), my SS card and the only 'official' paperwork I had that proved my name change (a notarized paper from the school district). 

I need a valid ID or a birth certificate to walk into the social security building to request a new card. I don't want to order a new birth certificate until it matches my legal name (which I'm changing again as I've socially transitioned after coming out as trans). That's going to cost over $300 (assuming no lawyer fees) and require me to to do something I'm psychologically incapable of doing -- speak to a judge (I have selective mutism, and thanks to trauma caused by an abusive judge during my disability hearing, judges are on the list of people that render me unable to speak) to 'argue' why I should be legally named the name I legally adopted when I was seven (and now, the name I've chosen for myself since).

Eventually, I hope this all gets sorted out (it should have been by 2014, when this was written -- thanks Lawyer Fail), but in the meantime, I'm kinda screwed, and there's not really anything I can do about it. I can't prove I am who I have been since I got married years ago because I can't prove I was who I was for the 17 years that preceded my marriage. And that name on my birth certificate? That person hasn't existed since 1987. There is no paperwork other than a birth certificate for them.

So there's the whole, annoying story about why I don't have an ID and can't just go get a new one.

Oh, and if I'd gotten a passport back when my ID was valid, none of this would be an issue, because an expired passport is still acceptable ID for the DMV. Just not an expired ID. Or the 3 that I had on my person from the days before they stole and destroyed your old one as they gave you the new. Moral of the story? Get a freaking passport.

Predators

In July of 2012, I had the pleasure of announcing that I had become a published author, with my first book, Hotel of Lost Souls. Last February, I had the joy of announcing the sequel, Pet, and then in December, their sequel, Bridges!
If you like vampires and Urban Fantasy (especially Anita Blake or Sookie Stackhouse), then you should like my books! Hotel and Pet were a blend of Urban Fantasy and Psychological Horror. Bridges and Predators are much more Urban Fantasy/Dark Fantasy. They explore the relationships between the characters and Zack finding his place in his world. It's about life and death and life after death.
From the back cover:

Death has been following Zack Henderson for ten years now. He woke up surrounded by it on a train a decade ago. He's watched it take friend and foe, strangers and family. It's weighed heavily on his mind. 

It was through death that his life finally began. He understands better than most how fragile life is, and he's done being prey.

At some point, you have to stop running from death and embrace it.

You can read a sample chapter on my writer's blog or on Amazon or Lulu, and if you like it, you can purchase it from Barnes and Noble,  Amazon, Kobo or Smashwords. All the links for purchase are available at my website.

You don't need an eReader to read my eBook, either! You can read the book now on your phone, tablet, iPad or computer using the Nook App or the Amazon Kindle App (both of which are free!). If you're using an iPad or iPod, you can get Stanza, a free eReading app and read any format that you like! Several other apps are available, too.

If nothing can replace the feel and smell of a real book for you, head on over to Lulu and pick up a slightly-larger-than-average paperback! You'll get to experience it the way it was meant to be read! eBooks can't display the little artsy touches at the beginning of each chapter or the fonts that the handwritten notes in the story use. With a physical book, you get back cover art, too! 

 

You can follow my author page on Facebook if you would like updates on future titles and to be able to connect with me personally as well as other readers. Thanks to everyone who has encouraged me over the years and to everyone who purchased a copy of Hotel of Lost Souls, Pet and Bridges!

My Love Story

Once upon a time, I barely considered myself human. I had a very... difficult... childhood, and bullying in my adolescence broke me completely. Of all things, this led me to the person who would help rebuild me into someone who wanted to amount to more than just a background character in someone else's life. To tell my greatest love story, is to start with the one before.

We were friends who fell in love. We had a relationship that lasted 16 months and while the first ten were pretty great, the last six were hell. Her mother found us together and, as predicted, rejected our relationship. We were never going to last all that long anyway -- as wonderful as we were for each other, we were also terrible for each other. Our personalities were both just too big and I was not capable of meeting her needs, nor was she capable of meeting mine. The death blow was that our parenting and core beliefs were completely incompatible (though I hadn't reached the point yet where I had decided it was not worth trying to change someone else's parenting beliefs and it was simply a matter of compatibility from the start), and being a mother was too important to me.

She eventually dumped me after our relationship became unbearable for both of us. It broke both of our hearts. We hurt each other so much toward the end and while some of it was simple incompatibility (opposites attract, sure, but they also burn each other up), a lot of it was simple societal rejection. Our relationship was not acceptable, and it conflicted with her religion. In my desperation to not let go and her desperation to live a normal life, we collided and burned -- loving and hurting spectacularly (we're both quite dramatic people, so it couldn't be any less).

When the day came and everything fell apart around me, I was left alone in the night (my own fault), crying out for help (literally -- I was miles from home with no way back), afraid and spiraling and utterly lost. Some kind soul answered my cry and called the police, and an officer arrived. He stepped out of his patrol car, his sunglasses on, and full cowboy in effect. He took me home, where I dove onto the computer, desperate to make contact with someone, clutching for a lifeline.

He was there. At the time, we were friends through an online fanfic group for Star Trek: Voyager. I was a writer and he was an avid fan who gave some of the best, most encouraging feedback. There had been some drama on the group over how he joined, because he lied to gain entrance before he was old enough and it led to a mess that ended in his leaving the group and my (being a moderator) reinstating him. It was the first online community I was a big part of and they're still a family to me, even if we only catch up in passing from time to time, since when Voyager ended, my stories started drying up (much to my now-husband's sadness).

My mother's day 2010 gift--a tattoo that represented our beginnings. The words are Klingon for "Truth and Love."

At the time, it was in full swing, though, and we chatted regularly with the others and two ladies in particular. He was the only one online and despite having class the next morning, he stayed up and talked to me all night, keeping me company in what was one of the worst times of my life. When he finally had to call it and go to bed, I stepped away from the computer and went to lie in my room and stare.

The next three days, I couldn't sleep or eat and I didn't so much as drink. My heart rate was above 200bpm every time I checked, and I grew weaker. Eventually, two of my friends decided to try to cheer me up, but when they came over, they spent the whole time talking to each other, ignoring me. It wasn't their fault -- they were catching up, and I wasn't much company, lying on the couch, waiting to die (and considering that I was so dehydrated that I hadn't used the bathroom in over a day, it didn't seem far off).

Finally, unable to bear being alone in a room full of my friends, I retreated to the computer to find him there. His nickname was Voy. I was Xak. Back then, that's what we called each other, too. I complained that I felt outside, and they eventually noticed, and we all engaged in a game of I, Never. Two of us at my house broke out a bottle of amaretto my best friend had left in my fridge, and he and another friend just drank water or tea.

I ended up very drunk, very quickly. I fell out of the computer chair, and my drinking buddy took over the keyboard. I eventually passed out and slept for the first time in three days. When I woke up, I was starving. I was on the road to recovery.

A couple weeks later, Voy asked if he could call me. We had been talking every night and growing closer and closer. I don't remember if it was that night or another, but he said the three big words to me. Words I have no memory of any male ever having said to me before that, other than my grandpa Dave. It was a major shock to me -- especially when I realized that I felt the same way.

"I love you."

We hadn't even met, but it was something we already knew. So, he changed the plans he had been making to fly me down to New Orleans and himself down to meet there with two other friends meeting for the first time from our online group. He was going to fly to Missouri first to pick me up. We would have a whole night together first.

On November 1, 2001, we officially became a couple.

My ex-girlfriend and I remained friends, though we had problems learning our new roles and boundaries as friends. Then the day came that my ex-boyfriend came over to hang out and watch a movie. Things were okay, I was telling him that I had a boyfriend, etc. and then my mom ruined it by mentioning that he was in California.

This seemed to be a challenge to my ex-bf, who proceeded to sexually assault me.

This was to be only one of many discoveries in regards to how little people respected online or long distance relationships. While I recovered from that, my husband was having girls pushed on him by his mother (this happened more after he actually visited) in the mistaken belief that someone closer to home would be preferable to the unknown girl halfway across the country taking up all his time.

People dismissed our feelings, because we hadn't met in a traditional way. It's a pretty shallow thing to believe you have to physically see someone to love them. That certainly isn't true of me and it wasn't true of him, either. In his case, he was also very young -- only eighteen to my twenty-one.

We eagerly awaited the day that we would meet in person. We sent each other letters, and he called me regularly. He sent me calling cards so that I could call him back. We carried on our dial-up romance, and I fretted that I wouldn't like him in person. I worried that we would be physically incompatible, that our (for lack of a better word) auras wouldn't mesh.

We started trying to scare each other off. We unloaded all our crazies in batches as it came to us. We discussed politics and religion and all of the big topics that can destroy friendships. We didn't get scared off. We fell more in love. We were talking to each other for the majority of every day, not growing sick of each other's phone company.

Finally, the big day arrived, and he sent me a picture of himself, wearing his 'boot' (he fractured his ankle a few weeks before) so that I would know who he was when he got off the plane. I didn't end up needing it.

My sister called right before I left, fretting that our grandma had convinced her he was going to be an axe murderer. On his side, his family warned him that I would be some old dude. We were undeterred. My ex-gf drove me to the airport, where I stood against the glass, watching his plane unload. The second he stepped off, everything disappeared except for him.

I felt like something I had been waiting for my entire life, that I didn't know was missing, had finally come home. We barely hesitated the second we had the chance to embrace. All of my fears and worries vanished and I had my Voy. I had no idea how short two weeks would be.

We went out on our first date, to get tattooed. It was his first, and he'd been talking about wanting one, so I took him to my shop. I got my second tattoo (and my artist sucked, but his was fine). After we were done, we went out to eat (us and my ex) and then finally came back to my house, where we spent the whole night holding hands, gazing into each other's eyes and talking.

My tattoo from that evening.

Seriously. That's what we did (we did some kissing toward the morning). We had already talked about how much we were rushing things already and we wanted to take them slow.

My ex-gf came back the next morning to take us to the airport. It was my first time ever on a plane, and I was terrified. The flight to Texas, where we had a layover, was okay. I enjoyed looking out the window. Then Texas was horrible. From breaking my favorite pair of shoes (checking for bombs) to the atmosphere to the 'don't shake your baby' posters everywhere, I wanted to get away as soon as possible.

We got on the plane a little late, and there were no two seats together. I stood in the middle of the aisle and broke down. I was still terrified of flying, but worse, I was phobic of strangers. No one would offer to move. Finally the flight attendant had to cajole someone into giving up their seat so we could sit together. Then we were stuck on the runway, frustrated because we had no way to tell our friends that we were going to be late as they fixed something on the plane.

Finally, we fell from the sky into Louisiana (that's what it felt like to me -- the turbulence was stuff of nightmares to a new flier). We were excited, but our friends were mad and berated us for not calling to let them know that we would be late... even though the flight was delayed on the tarmac, and this was before we had mobile phones.

The next week was heaven. There were a few bumps, mainly caused by miscommunication and surprising lack of courtesy on the part of our friends (who knew I was violently allergic to cigarettes, and yet didn't warn me that her family would smoke inside and had no sympathy when I had to leave, and further got angry when I was upset that they went through my belongings and mocked things that were personal to me). But we thought they were minor issues that we got through, just caused by unfamiliarity with one another.

We flew back to my state and spent our last week together inseparable. Finally, it was time for him to go home. It was like being asked to give up an internal organ for me. I had been in love before, thought I'd found a soul mate, but it was nothing like I felt for him. My ex almost started crying watching us say good-bye, pressing our hands to the glass that separated us, the first distance in two weeks that was about to grow by 1,850 miles.

I knew I'd found the one. It was the first time in my life that I thought maybe marriage wasn't a horrible idea. I had never wanted to be married, never wanted to be trapped with someone -- but he was different. It didn't sound like a trap.

Then came the blow from our 'friends.' A good-bye letter was sent, accusing us of being maliciously responsible for everything that went wrong during our visit. We were accused of ignoring them (we could hear them enjoying their new relationship through the thin walls of the motel we stayed in together, so we thought they were just as happy as we were just being together) and that we'd had 'a week together already' (we'd had barely a day). The letter was hostile, hurtful, and worst of all, it ended with "don't bother replying, because we won't read it."

Years ago, that hurt tremendously. I loved one of them as a close friend, and to have her girlfriend send a letter like that to me was heartbreaking. Twelve years later, I just hope that they have lived as happy a life as we have.

There was a huge ice storm that winter. My mom left with her boyfriend of the time to go to Palm Springs, so I was alone when it hit. My ex and I were still friends, and she rescued me from my cold house -- but I couldn't abide being away from the phone, my only contact with my Voy. So I went home and lit every candle I had for light and a tiny bit of warmth. I cuddled my kitties under blankets and rode out the storm, watching the other side of the street get power back a day before I would.

In February, he sent me a ticket to come visit him in California. I think that may have been the unforgivable act for my ex. I'd told her that nothing would ever make me go to California. I hated the Eden complex people had regarding it. I also hated that its distance from my home state had shattered many dreams into impossibility. But here I was, flying out to the land I swore I wouldn't go to for her. Of course, I would have if it had been important, but how could she have ever known that?

California

Being back with him was like coming up from drowning into the most perfect air above. Still, I was scared and otherwise alone in a state far, far from my native Missouri. People were mostly friendly, but it didn't stop me from being nervous about everything. We had fun and reaffirmed that we needed to be together. Neither of us could tolerate the long distance much longer, so he started making plans.

And I saw, for the first time, a place I'd been drawing pictures of since I was a child. A place of mountains and palm trees and my favorite oak trees. A place he'd grown up, and I'd only seen in my imagination (and probably more than a few t.v. shows and movies). Santa Rosa, California wasn't my home, but I felt like it had always been a part of me I'd never known was there.

At the end of the trip, his dad took us to the airport. We walked in, and I got checked in; then he said he'd go tell his dad how much longer it would be and then be right back.

He never came back.

I ran back to the front of the airport and watched what looked like his dad's van driving away in confusion. I broke down as they called my flight to board and he didn't come back. We hadn't said good-bye.

I cried the whole way through the security check, boarding and the nearly 4 hour flight home. The flight attendants worried over me and gave me drinks and snacks, trying to cheer me up, but it was in vain. I'd missed my last good-bye, my last hug, my last kiss of the impossible person I never thought I'd find.

We found out a long time later that his dad had been hiding that he was in significant pain, not wanting to bother his family with it. I wish he'd told us. I could have understood that. I didn't understand why I left feeling like his entire family didn't like me. I hadn't really even had a chance to offend his dad.

We finally set a date for him to come live with me. We agreed that I'd fly out in April and bring him back in May. He was going to rent a U-Haul and move out. I flew back as planned, but at the end, his family talked him into taking a train instead. I felt betrayed because his mom waited until I wasn't in the apartment to even bring it up.

She didn't believe he was really going to go, even though he'd been telling her for weeks. To me, having our plans changed in a way that would mean he would leave behind basically everything he owned, was a way of her keeping him tied there -- something he didn't want. He wanted to go out and make it on his own, and he was afraid that any safety net would be too tempting to fall into.

His mom and I had a huge fight. At the time, I couldn't see her as what she was: a mother losing her baby, her oldest child, to a painful stretch of miles that would make it nearly impossible to see each other again. I saw her as the mother who wouldn't let her son go to start his own life. My heart breaks for her now, but then, I was hurt and angry. I knew I wasn't good enough for him, but he wanted me, and I knew that he was the missing key to living.

Because I wasn't living. I was existing. I had nothing to live for. All of my dreams and hopes were ripped away with nasty words like 'unemployable' and 'disabled.' My vanishing vision and PTSD that would render me a permanent passenger made college impossible -- although I saw no reason to waste the time and money on me. After all, I've been legally declared worthless. A 'waste of potential.'

Of course, this wasn't to happen for another six months, but the effects of those things were already drowning me. A biologist. A psychologist. A scientist. Those were the things I'd dedicated my life to becoming. Those were things I would never become (not officially, anyway).

But he didn't care that doors were shut in my face everywhere I turned. He didn't see my disabilities as defining me. They were just a part of me. They were something that he was willing to struggle with beside me -- because they would be a struggle between us as well. Trust was an alien concept to me. I 'knew' he would eventually get sick of me and leave. After all, I'd certainly tried to enough times.

Our train

But in the end, the train was all we could afford. We said good-bye, and in the early morning, our hearts broke watching his mom and little sister holding each other, crying and waving as we drove off. He started over with nothing but me. We cuddled in my tiny twin bed, and he got a job he could walk to. He told me to give him six months, and he'd know for sure by then if we were meant to be together.

He proposed on our first anniversary with a bouquet of roses. He had been planning to wait until we moved into our own place and he could get a ring, but I was pretty adamant that I didn't care about jewelry (and I most certainly didn't want expensive jewelry). We had our own place and were about to move in, but I couldn't wait anymore. I was afraid he still wasn't sure, and I demanded to know if that was so. I still feel like I ruined his proposal, but I hadn't been so sure of anything as I was of him.

He was just as sure of me, it turned out. He did eventually get me a ring (a cheap placeholder ring, although I was certainly very happy with it -- I ended up loving the expensive engagement ring he found later even more than my wedding ring). We were married two years after, on our anniversary again (so I only have to remember one!).

That was ten years ago. Ten years with the most amazing man I've ever known. Ten years that have changed my entire worldview. Ten years of a happily ever after that I hope will last forever.