Reflections on Motherhood: Lenea Kalima Salde-Azzam (11/18/17)
Lenea: Heavenly Flower (Hawaiian)
Kalima: Speaker; Mouthpiece (Arabic); “The formal declaration of faith” in Islam.
The Huge Decision
We prepared as much as we knew how to. My partner and I are community organizers, and we know how to plan! We know how to put together outlines and benchmarks and work lists, etc. We had binders of research, and tracking forms, and food and exercise plans. We documented midwife visits, came with questions, did acupuncture, took the herbs, went to birth education class. And yet, the only thing we were pretty sure about was that we weren’t really sure what we were doing. Even with all the support, love, and care from Marea, our midwife, there was really no way we could have prepared for this beautiful chaos.
The process was hard. I had had a miscarriage in 2017 and when I got pregnant six months later, I was afraid to be excited. My partner and I went to the hospital the first time around for an intrauterine insemination (IUI) procedure, and when we went back the second time around they were no longer doing IUI’s. We were totally heartbroken because we thought that that was our only option. We sort of stumbled upon midwifery, did our research and called one midwife and asked her a series of questions and then decided to work with her for the the IUI procedure. We were shocked at how different the experience was and how grounded we both felt during the process. When we found out that I was pregnant, we immediately called our midwife, who then talked to us about home birth and invited us to a movie screening and roundtable discussion.
We decided to “entertain” this idea, but were definitely not sold until we watched The Business of Being Born and talk to other midwives, doulas, and pregnant women at the screening. We both agreed that night that we felt we could provide the space in our home to bring the baby into the world the way we wanted — in a calm, warm, musical environment. After deciding to work with a midwife and have a home birth, our midwife informed us that she too was pregnant. So, she referred us to Marea Goodman, whom we grew to love very much. Marea held space for our family to go through this process in such an incredible way. She not only provided the knowledge and medical support that we needed, but she did it in a way that was thoughtful and caring. She upheld our rights when we hadn’t even realized that we had had experiences in healthcare that were both humiliating and traumatizing. Marea treated us with dignity and supported us through worry and fear. Our family is eternally grateful for the love that Marea helped bring into our lives.
Reflections on the Labor
This was the most intense “moment” of my life. What I remember now, four months later, are shades of memories. I am reminded of the time we spent in our beloved space at home, so carefully arranged so that we might bring life into it. The lights are dim and my partner is looking deeply into my eyes, waiting for me to tell her what to do, how to help. But, I gaze back at her and without words she knows that her presence and the ways she is squeezing my hips is enough. I look at her and think, “everything is about to change my love.” The words won’t come out, but we both know the moment is upon us.
My last day of work was Wednesday; I remember I also had a meeting that evening. I checked in about how excited we were and how nervous I was to have 2 weeks off before the baby would be here. But she had her own plans. That night I woke up to contractions. I felt a little sick and felt sweaty while going through each one. By the morning I was only experiencing some tightening, so thought whatever it was, had passed. I drove my partner to work in the morning and went home. I started to have more contractions, so tried to get in touch with Marea to see if it would be okay to go to get acupuncture. I went to see Marea that evening and she confirmed that I was in early labor. We went to eat and then went home.
That night the contractions intensified, coming every 6 minutes. With each surge, I felt more empowered to get our baby here. I felt ready and aware of all that was around me - every ancestor and every candle lit for the welcoming of our little one. Around 3:00am, the contractions started to spread out to every 8 minutes, and then increased in time to every 20 minutes by 7:00am. I felt disappointed and tired. The next day was difficult. My best friend and partner stayed with me in our bedroom. I remember the smell of mom cooking spaghetti in the kitchen and the sounds of Jeanelle and Nikki sitting on the bed talking about how the night had gone. I hadn’t slept more than 20 minutes at a time the night before, so Nikki went to get me Benadryl so that I’d be able to get some shut eye. I buried my face in the pillow and felt comforted by Nikki’s lingering smell.
4:00PM approaches and by now I’m getting scared. The contractions are starting to get closer together and it makes my heart beat faster. All of sudden I’m overwhelmed by fear. I’m afraid that I won’t be able to do this, so I tell Nikki to call Marea and tell her I want to go to the hospital. Marea gets on the phone and talks me down and says that she’s going to come over. I pray that she will get to the house soon, and help me. I can barely keep half a banana and a bite of spaghetti down as the contractions start to get closer together. They have stayed at 8 minutes apart for hours and hours. I’m so exhausted and now Nikki and Jeanelle are talking about putting on Star Wars. I stand next to the bed so that I can watch too — but the surges are just too strong. I can’t concentrate on anything but the baby. Marea comes behind me and rubs my back and gives me water. Hours have passed and the lights have been dimmed. I look up and see the prayer flag that my community has given us. I look around at the confirmations that Nikki and I have written: “God is with us.” I rock on my bouncy ball, head in Nikki’s arms, thinking about the women that we met in the Philippines, who gave birth in grave conditions, women who were taken from their babies when they became political prisoners, women who died giving birth at checkpoints. I lift my eyes to the sky and breathe. In this moment I’m overwhelmed. I feel like my heart is going to fall out of my chest. I pray that my own mother and mother figures in my life know the love we share. I feel their life in my veins.
I climb into the water, but am too exhausted to keep myself up. I stay there, laying back in the water to rest, and come up to the side, embracing each surge as it prepares me to bring forth life.
I struggle through each one. But, I can’t anymore. I climb onto the bed and the women around me hold me as I push. I trust when she tells me to push. I trust when she tells me to push down. I trust when she tells me not to be afraid. And then. Then she is here. “She’s healthy.” WHAT?? We had a girl? And then the tears come. The hyperventilating silence and awe. I am feeling her on my skin, breathing and looking up at me.
When I think of how I might be as a mother, I hope that my daughter knows that she was raised collectively, and that she is a product of hundreds of years of resilience and strength that she might know in her lifetime, collective liberation. I hope that she knows the love of community and works for the good of the people. I pray that she will have a spirituality that connects her to God and all that is beloved. I hope that she stays connected to the earth and the water and loves to be in the water as much as she loves to splash around during bath time. I hope that she has passion for what she loves and uses her voice in the same way she takes her pacifier out to say what she wants to and then puts it back in by herself so that she can rest more easily. I pray that stay connected to her mother/father/parent figures so that they may give each other life.
