Endurance Riding

Survivor. It’s the word we use to describe a person who copes well with the difficulties of life. In a tragic event, it’s the word we use to describe someone who has survived the tragedy.

Survivor.

It’s a pretty word. It’s a strong word. It’s easy to say. It sounds good. It makes so much more sense, right? I mean, who wants to be a victim? Just hearing the word victim makes me sad. Saying it aloud is almost impossible. It’s a word that is painful to say. I cannot say it and smile. I mean, just try it. Say, “I am a victim” aloud while smiling. It doesn’t work.

But stand up straight, hold your shoulders back, relax your face, and say, “I am a survivor.” It works. It’s much easier to say and it is certainly much easier for you to hear.

And so that’s who I am. I am a survivor. I am a survivor, along with tens of thousands of others who lived through Butte County’s Camp Fire on November 8^th, 2018.

But what if I don’t want to be a survivor? What if I don’t want my life to be defined by this thing, this thing I survived? What if I just want to be, like I was before, without this label?

It’s difficult to describe to someone who has never lived it what it is like to live through a natural disaster. To put it simply, it is exhausting.

It is exhausting dealing with the paperwork, the mounds of paperwork which come with FEMA and the insurance claims. Then there is the paperwork for your children to attend new schools, join a new health insurance plan, and enroll in new activities in your new town. There are job applications to fill out. Forms to file to receive new copies of important documents. Change of address forms, requests for private financial assistance, tax documents. The list goes on.

It is exhausting going through bags and boxes of donations from well-meaning family, friends and acquaintances of clothing that doesn’t fit, is too well worn, just isn’t your style, or that you don’t need because someone else already gave you something similar. It is exhausting trying to figure out how to politely decline generous donations of expensive items people want to gift you. But how do you explain that while you had those items before, you don’t need them now? Sure, you’ll have a television again, and pots and pans, and furniture, but until then, you don’t want to tote anything extra around. So, rather than argue, you politely say thank you, and make yet another trip to Goodwill.

It is exhausting trying to make plans for the future, let alone answer questions about those plans. The famous question always is, “Are you planning to rebuild?” but most of us don’t have an answer to that yet. How can we decide when we don’t know what the infrastructure of our town will be, how long the clean-up will take, how much money we will receive from insurance, and when our town’s drinking water will even be safe? Most of us are living in limbo still, even though it’s been more than two months since the Camp Fire.

We have all been changed by this natural disaster. Our lives suddenly have this division, this division that defines our lives before the fire and our lives after the fire. We have been described as resilient. Persistent. As fighters.

Survivors.

We have become survivors.

Elizabeth Edwards once said, “Resilience is accepting your new reality, even if it’s less good than the one you had before. You can fight it, you can do nothing but scream about what you’ve lost, or you can accept it and try to put together something that is good.”

And so we are survivors. We have chosen to accept, to surrender, and to move forward.

And together, we will build something beautiful.

There are so many stories of heroes from the day the Camp Fire roared through our small mountain communities, decimating almost all of Paradise and its neighboring towns. The Camp Fire was terrifying, moving a football field a second, fueled by winds faster than my horses can gallop. It mercilessly destroyed memory-filled homes, family-owned businesses, historic buildings, and beauty that had surrounded our town, in the form of tall pines, twisting manzanitas, and the shrubs and bushes finding shade beneath giant oaks.

Some described it as hell on earth. It was an inferno. The heat and darkness trying to entrap people as they escaped. Nearly 90 people died in this fire, and although that number is devastating, I think it is a miracle that more people didn’t perish. There are so many survivors. THOUSANDS of survivors.

THOUSANDS of survivors because of the people in our community.

THOUSANDS of survivors because of the employees at Feather River Hospital who evacuated all of our patients in record time. Every single patient. Every single one, and just because our employees were “doing their jobs.”

THOUSANDS of survivors because of bus drivers, teachers, and other educators who got children to safety.

THOUSANDS of survivors because of first responders, firemen, and police officers. First responders, firemen, and police officers who directed traffic, created escape routes when it seemed there were none, cloaked evacuees in fire blankets, actively fought back flames, found places for people to shelter, and drove people to safety.

THOUSANDS of survivors because of neighbors checking in on one another and lending a helping hand.

These were ordinary people, ordinary people who became extraordinary heroes in the midst of such devastation and tragedy.

I would like to tell you about my personal heroes on the day of November 8th, 2018. My heroes were also just ordinary people. Ordinary people, but they were not adults. My heroes were in the form of three teenage kids. Just three ordinary teenage kids.

I was fast asleep on the morning of November 8th with my 11-month-old son, who I had nursed back to sleep around 6 am. I had just come off 3 shifts in a row at Feather River Hospital, where I work as a registered nurse. I am usually up around 7 am, feeding horses while my baby sits in his stroller or is strapped to me in a baby carrier, but this particular morning I was determined to sleep in because I had worked overtime on Wednesday, getting to bed around midnight, just hours before the fire started early Thursday morning. I was snuggled in bed with my baby fast asleep in the room down the hall, home alone because my husband leaves for work around 4 am.

Jakob, my 16-year-old son, had left to drop off his 13-year-old brother at school and then pick up 14-year-old Paisley, a horsemanship student of mine who hitches a ride to Paradise High School with Jakob. When Jakob and his brother Declan got to Declan’s school, they were told the school was closing due to a fire in the canyon. Jakob drove over to Paisley’s house to let her know that he was heading back home to wake me up. Paisley, without hesitation, jumped in Jakob’s truck, telling him that she was going to help with the horses. She knew about the fire, it was moving fast, and her father was already getting things in order to evacuate her house. Paisley could have easily stayed at her own home. I am sure there were things she had wanted to pack up — a favorite pair of shoes, maybe, or a bag of clothes, or some favorite treasured items. Instead, she left with the clothes on her back, jumped in Jakob’s truck and headed to our horse farm with my sons.

It was minutes after 8 am when Jakob burst into my room, yelling, “Mom, get up! We have to evacuate horses… now!” I was dazed and confused, having been rudely awoken out of REM sleep. I decided to assess the situation myself, wondering if this teenage son of mine was being a little overdramatic, as teenagers often are. But the moment I opened up the drapes, I was stunned. Across the street in the canyon, Sawmill Peak was burning. A huge plume of dark smoke was already high above the tree tops, ascending upwards and getting lost in the clouds. I could not see flames, but the reflection of them left this terrifyingly beautiful glow in the parts of the sky where color could still be seen.

I remember saying, “Oh my god, yea, we do need to evacuate horses.” I rushed to throw on a pair of jeans and grabbed my truck keys to begin hitching one of the horse trailers. There was a second trailer in the driveway owned by a boarder, and by the time I was outside, Paisley was already making calls to get a truck to haul that second trailer out.

As I was hitching the horse trailer, Paisley and Jakob were grabbing horses. We had 7 horses and only enough horse trailers to get 5 out, but I had a friend coming with another trailer.

I remember trying to remain calm as I backed up the horse trailer, concentrating hard to try to get the truck lined up to the hitch on the first try. Declan usually guides me as I back up the truck, but this morning he was helping Florence, the tenet who occupies our guest house, to grab her essentials, as well as the dogs. He had shown up on her doorstep saying, “I’ve got my wallet and my poetry. Do you need any help?”

Flo had boxes of her brother’s photos in her home. Her brother, 25-year-old Christian Spelt, had passed away suddenly back in May and Flo had an enormous amount of his photos, memories the family had sent to Flo as she put together a memorial album in an attempt to honor the life of her only sibling. Declan grabbed every single box with every single one of those treasured memories and got them loaded up in Flo’s car before returning to help us with the horses.

When the baby woke up, I had to attend to him, comforting him as he cried, toting him around in one arm, while throwing diapers and some baby clothes into a bag with my other arm. It was only moments really, but it seemed like hours that I was wandering aimlessly around the house wondering what to grab and wondering if I had time to sit down and nurse the baby.

When my husband arrived home from work, he took the baby and the kids and I began loading horses. It was almost 9 am and all horses, except for 2 were loaded up. I remember seeing Paisley and Jakob standing at the end of the driveway, holding Dippi and ZaZa, patiently waiting. We could hear the roar of the fire across the street. Every BOOM sounded like a clap of thunder, when in actuality, it was a tree, burning and crashing to the ground.

Gary looked at me and said, “Your friend isn’t going to make it. We have to leave.” Panicked, I said, “I can’t leave the horses.”

BOOM! Another tree burned and crashed to the ground, shaking the earth as it hit.

We have to leave.

I can’t leave the horses.

You have to leave the horses. You have to leave the horses, Jaya.

I wasn’t sure if it was my husband speaking to me or the voice in my own head.

I yelled at Declan to fill a water trough and pull a bale of hay out of the shed. I instructed him to leave the hay right in the middle of the center paddock, the paddock which had the least amount of trees. I grabbed a green livestock marker and wrote my phone number on both sides of each horse.

I took Dippi from Jakob, and Paisley and I quietly walked her and ZaZa to the center paddock. We took off their halters, set them on the fence, and left the gates unlatched behind us as we walked toward the vehicles. Both of us were crying, silent in our tears, hating what we had to do, but knowing we had no other choice.

Paisley’s dad showed up then, saying the entire street behind us was on fire. He had driven through flames to get to us. We all loaded up and caravanned out of there with five vehicles, driving up in elevation, away from the fire that was consuming the lower town of Paradise.

We chose to take a narrow dirt road which would lead us up and around, dumping us into Chico at the bottom of the hill. As we were driving down this winding gravel road, it looked as if we were going to drive right into the fire. Cars had veered over the canyon road, stuck against trees. I momentarily thought I should stop and see if anyone was hurt, but then realized it was more dangerous to block traffic on this tiny back country road. I had both hands on the steering wheel, trying not to let my trailer tires drop off the edge.

When the road widened, a firetruck came blaring past us. The driver said to keep moving, the fire was growing, and they were going to close the road as soon as we passed through. I yelled that I had left two horses behind as the rig drove onwards. I continued on, feeling sick to my stomach. I was filled with such intense guilt that it started to consume me. It left me speechless, left me hopeless, covering me with a numbness that is difficult to describe.

I drove past the Historic Honey Run Covered Bridge, remembering when I waded in the water below its wooden planks the summer I was pregnant with Asher. I did not know it was the last time I’d see that covered bridge. It went up in flames not long after I passed it.

After turning on the Skyway, we were gridlocked in Chico. As we sat in traffic, the tears began again, only to get worse the further we got from home. We hit multiple road blocks on the way to Durham. Gary’s car ran out of gas. We abandoned it in an orchard. Jakob lost us in the traffic and decided to travel alone to Oroville to the only home he knew of there — the home of Dianna Chapek, our hoof trimmer and his mentor.

We finally did make it to our friends’ home in Durham, but just as we had gotten settled, a sheriff knocked on the door, telling us the fire had jumped the freeway and we needed to evacuate. So, we loaded up horses again, and fled further north.

The next couple of days were a blur. I didn’t sleep, I barely spoke, I rarely ate. In the first 36 hours, we had been in three different homes. We had been separated from our oldest son, as Jakob stayed with Dianna in Oroville to help her with all the displaced horses who had found shelter there. We learned our home had been destroyed, along with the homes of many of our friends. Our entire neighborhood was gone. The hospital I worked for was damaged, leaving me suddenly unemployed. The schools of our children were indefinitely closing their Paradise campuses.

And Dippi and ZaZa were still missing…

On Sunday, November 11th, I was finally reunited with Dippi and ZaZa. They had made it safely to the Gridley Fairgrounds, thanks to North Valley Animal Disaster Group. They had both suffered burns in the fire, but they were alive, and with some intensive veterinary care, they would hopefully both recover.

I embraced my mares, stroking their necks and breathing in their ash-filled manes. The campfire smell, that heavy, dusky, smoky smell would linger in their coats for days. The fine ash hidden in their undercoats would take even longer to fully brush out.

A few days after getting Dippi and ZaZa settled in their new temporary home, I decided to clean out my horse trailer and see what was hidden in the tack room compartment. On the morning of the fire, it had been near empty, but the day I opened it up after the fire, it was a gigantic, chaotic, beautiful mess. There were saddles upon saddles. Bridles, reins, bits, pads, girths, hoof boots, heaped in piles, stuck in corners, thrown on top of each other. I wanted to just stand there and cry and stare at this glorious sight. All the years of my hard earned money spent on tack to fit hard-to-fit horses, tack I needed to ride, to compete, to continue operating my business, some irreplaceable sentimental pieces, such as the bitless bridle Asali finished Tevis in. It was all there. There were even a few items stuffed in the trailer that I didn’t really need, items that were just that extra piece of tack, which will now be passed along to friends who were not as lucky as I, friends who lost all their treasured tack in this devastating fire.

When I asked Paisley why she thought to grab so much — almost every damn thing — from my tack room as we were evacuating, she said simply, “Because if we couldn’t drive the horses out of the fire, I thought we’d ride them out.”

Declan snapped this photo of the ominous sky as we were driving through Honey Run on our way to Chico.

Although we lost the barn & tack room (you can see the feed bins standing in the ashes), our riding arena remains intact!

A burned jump standard in the middle of our training field.

The remembrance garden we had planted a few years ago, which bordered our home, to commemorate the horses we had lost. The hearts were placed for Forest, Lady, Ember, and Beauty just weeks before the fire broke out.

Paisley enjoying a moment with Sham the day after the fire began, under a smoke filled sky. Sham was one of five horses we safely evacuated from Lightfoot Horse Farm.

The selfie I snapped the moment I was reunited with Dippi. Dippi is currently still being treated at UC Davis Veterinary Medical Teaching Hospital for complications she developed as a result of the injuries she sustained in the Camp Fire. (Update 1/15/19: Sadly, Dippi did not recover from her injuries. Her story is posted here: In Memory of Dippi)

Paisley and Jakob with CeCe several weeks after the Camp Fire. CeCe is enjoying 8 acres of pasture at her foster home.

Declan with ZaZa at our temporary home in Santa Rosa. ZaZa was treated for hoof burns after the fire.

Our sign, though charred, still marks the entrance to our property.

The great madrone tree remains, untouched by the fire.

If there ever was a year to sit out the Tevis Cup, it would have been this year. I had a million reasons not to enter this year… it’s been over a year since I have actually slept any decent number of hours in a row, I am still carrying around an extra 10 pounds of pregnancy weight even though I am no longer pregnant, I am grossly out of shape (at least compared to 2014 when I rocked the Tevis Cup), I had every day of the week leading up to the ride crammed with commitments, and even though my horse had finished her last 50 mile race, she had not done as well as I had hoped. Talk about major self-doubts.
 
The day before we were supposed to leave for the ride, I had a complete emotional breakdown. It was impressive, complete with tears streaming down my face and sarcastic comments under my breath. I told my husband I was not riding. I told him Jakob was going to ride in my place. I found him a sponsor, he was ready, the trailer was packed, he was going to ride. I would crew.
 
My husband looked at me and said simply, “I didn’t draw Jakob on the front of the crew shirts this year. I drew you.” He did. He drew me. The pony tail gave it away. Definitely not Jakob on that t-shirt. Then he said, “You will regret it if you don’t ride.”
 
And so that is why I ended up on top of the horse at the start of Tevis this year. Me and my pony tail. They say it’s not the things you did that you’ll regret, but the things you didn’t do. And so I was at the start of the Tevis Cup again this year. Me and my pony tail.
 
The start of the ride was uneventful, and quiet actually. I started about 8 minutes behind everyone else, as I had a baby on my breast up until the moment I knew I had to mount and head out. The first several miles were beautiful as we settled into a consistent pace with a couple out-of-state riders. I enjoyed riding in solitude at times, as that is a rare treat for me these days. I remembered to glance back over my shoulder as we climbed up to High Camp, and the sight made me smile. Seeing Lake Tahoe in the early morning sun is stunning, and something I only get to see once a year if I am lucky.
 
By the time we got into Red Star, however, I was battling the stress of the ride. My horse was famished and dove into food and water so intensely, she almost pulled me off my feet. My breasts were engorged with milk and leaking painfully into my nursing bra. I kept glancing at my watch and knew we were getting more and more behind schedule.
 
We were the last riders to make it to Robinson Flat before cut-off, entering the vet check with a group of other riders who were racing against the clock. An endurance friend standing on the side lines grabbed my horse and began sponging her as my crew rushed to help. We vetted through and I sat down to nurse my baby. I was hopeful the hour ahead would provide a much needed rest for me and Asali, but as Asher drained all the milk from my full breasts, I began to feel sick. Really sick. I don’t know what exactly happened, but I think it was a combination of the adrenaline wearing off and becoming volume depleted as Asher nursed. One of my amazing crew members made me a cinnamon tea and handed me small snacks that I could stomach, which helped enough that I was able to mount and ride out of Robinson Flat.
 
Riding down the long boring road towards Dusty Corners was torturous as I tried not to vomit off the back of my horse. As I prayed for someone to ride up behind us so I wouldn’t have to be alone, Brenna Sullivan appeared. We have ridden together before and our gaited horses matched pace nicely, so we decided to stick together. She was a godsend during that tough, hot stretch into the first canyon as we continued to stress about the time.
 
Ultimately, our ride ended at Devil’s Thumb, 54 miles into the 2018 Tevis Cup. Asali came out of that first canyon extremely hot and fatigued, with muscle tremors and a pulse of 120. I was in awe of the volunteers who rushed to my aid to pull tack, cool my horse, walk her and feed her. She recovered nicely, but I still opted to pull her. We shared a ride back to Auburn with Brenna and her horse, who also pulled at Devil’s Thumb.
 
We didn’t end up with that second buckle I was so hopeful for this year, but we walked away from the Tevis Cup with a wealth of memories, stories, new friends, and hell, some bragging rights (breastfeeding a baby on the trail, conquering Cougar Rock, climbing out of one bitch of a canyon in the heat and smoke, and almost puking off the side of my horse)!
 
The day after the ride, I skipped the awards banquet and spent almost the entire day snuggling in bed with my little babe as he nursed to his heart’s content. And when asked if I had regretted starting the ride, I answered in Julie Suhr fashion, “I have never regretted a Tevis Cup start.”
 
The trail taught me one valuable lesson this year. It doesn’t matter how many times your horse has finished, how many times you’ve started, or if you have finished in a past year. The trail just doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter how much you’ve prepared, how fit your horse is, or how badly you want another buckle. The trail just doesn’t care. It doesn’t care how much money you’ve spent, how far you’ve driven, or how good your crew is. The trail just doesn’t care.
 
But however brutal the trail is, it is equally beautiful. However difficult, it is also forgiving. However scary, it is also welcoming.
 
It is a gift to be at the starting line, and an even greater one to have another year to try again…

Volunteers at Devil’s Thumb taking care of my beloved Asali. The volunteers at this ride never cease to amaze me! It is incredible to see so many people come together for a love of horses and the sport of endurance.

Waiting for Mommy and Asali to arrive at Robinson Flat.

Covered in trail dust and dirt, I was still happy to see my baby!

With crew member Julie. This was Julie’s first Tevis experience! She was a fabulous member of our team and tried to help me manage my nausea when I began feeling sick.

Back in Auburn!

There is a certain type of exhaustion that comes with being a new mom. It’s the type of exhaustion that sometimes causes crying fits (from both mom and baby), that I-don’t-care-if-I-brushed-my-teeth, I’m-going-to-the-grocery-store-in-my-pajamas kind of exhaustion. It’s that type of exhaustion that causes you to try so hard for sleep that you’ll do anything, anything to get your babe to nap. You’ve tried it all: nursing, rocking, patting, singing, walking, driving, strolling, massaging, swaddling, even a dose of Tylenol…
 
…and then when he finally does fall asleep, despite all rational thoughts that I should follow the old adage “sleep when baby sleeps,” I find myself staring at him, listening to his steady breathing, studying his face: the length of his tiny lashes, the softness of his skin, the plumpness in his cheeks, the sweetness of his lips. I count each tiny finger and toe as I grasp his hand in mine. I am overtaken by a love so deep it takes my breath away, and keeps me awake for hours.
 
I am his everything right now. His nutrition, his comfort, his protection. I am the Queen of Queens. I am the most beautiful woman in the world. He is in awe of me. I am his lover, his friend, his mother, his everything. He cannot live without me. He listens to my sweet voice, and although I cannot sing, I sound like an angel to him. I am his everything.
 
He calls for me at night, for he cannot sleep without knowing I am near. His eyes follow my every move. He is beyond joyful to see me when I have been away. I am the wind, the rain, the sun, and the sky. I am his everything. He dances with me as if he’ll dance with me forever. He falls asleep in my arms and lets me kiss him endlessly. I am the moon, the stars, the night. I am his everything.
 
But something, some day, will change. He will push me away when I embrace him. He will run off to play and won’t say good-bye. One day, he won’t accept my endless kisses. He will no longer long for me. He won’t fit in my arms, or even in my lap, and he’ll laugh at me when I want to dance with him in the middle of the night. I will sing to him, and he’ll tell me to stop.
 
One day, he will grow up and leave me. He will find a new love, one prettier than me. He will call her Queen. She will be his everything.
 
One day, he will remain my everything. He will still be my sun, my stars, my moon, my sky. He will be my light, my love, my laughter. My King of Kings. He will be my everything, even when I am no longer his everything.
 
So, today, as I embrace his tiny body in mine, feeling his skin against mine, I will enjoy every moment as his everything. I will be his Queen of Queens, his magnificent, his beautiful, his brave, his endless love. I will be his everything, today. Today I will be his everything.
 
I will soak up his scent and bask in his laughter, and close my eyes tight to photograph this moment in time, while I am still his everything. I will vow not to forget any of this time: the silkiness of his hair, the adoration in his eyes, the expressiveness in his brow, the innocence of his laughter, the purity in his smile.
 
For tomorrow will come too fast and I may no longer be, his everything.
 
But, today, tomorrow… and forever, he will be. My everything.

I recently went to a film screening of the documentary Why Not Home? I knew the gist of the movie. I knew the movie would make a case for home birth. What I didn’t know was that the movie chronicled health care workers who had chosen home birth. There was a registered nurse, a nurse practitioner, and even an obstetrician… all chose home birth. Why? What is it that we as health care workers know that sways us towards a decision to have a home birth versus a hospital birth?
 
What I can tell you is that I always knew I wanted to have a home birth. Even before I became a registered nurse. The deal was sealed for me after my birth experience with Declan.
 
Declan was a beautiful hospital birth, with an unmedicated labor and delivery. But a few things happened that made me realize next time I didn’t want to deliver in a hospital.
 
I was barely 23 and surrounded by my husband and two of my closest friends during Declan’s labor. I had had an uncomplicated, healthy pregnancy (except for the normal morning sickness, which was more than I would have liked). My labor with Declan was textbook… my water broke, contractions started, and I dilated regularly, progressing at a “normal” rate. I had developed a great relationship with my OB/GYN during my pregnancy and he knew my birth plan. However, on the day I went into labor, he was at a men’s retreat with his church (imagine that!) and so the on-call obstetrician showed up in my labor room. He walked in to introduce himself while I was on the toilet and said, “Let’s get her off of the toilet and back in bed.” He clearly didn’t want to be delivering a baby while I was sitting on a toilet.
 
I got off of the toilet and climbed into bed and was attached to the fetal monitor. I continued to labor until finally I felt the need to push (I remember gripping the side rail of the bed and wanting to jump out of my skin when I went through transition). The OB/GYN I had just met walked in, gowned up, and turned on those bright lights, spotlighting my vagina for the world to see. Gary was right there with him, and was allowed to assist in delivering Declan, but he too, had to gown up and stand under those hot, bright lights as if he was performing on the opening night of Broadway.
 
I was in the classic delivery position for a hospital birth — on my back, semi-reclined, my legs in stirrups. I felt like I was on display, I was uncomfortable, and I could feel everything. Everything. I could feel the doctor’s fingers when he put them inside me, without permission, in an attempt to stretch my perineum. I could feel that “ring of fire” intensely as the baby’s head stretched my vagina, opening it like a wide-mouth bass. And I felt that shot of IM Pitocin hit my thigh, the nurse pushing the drug before my friend Heather could even finish telling her that I was against IM Pitocin post-delivery, except in the case of postpartum hemorrhage (as stated in my birth plan). That shot of Pitocin was classic protocol, treating the patient before there was a real need just because it was hospital policy.
 
After delivery, Declan needed to be warmed up. While he had initially been placed in my arms, he was soon put into the isolette, with the warming lights on him, heating him up. It wasn’t long before he was back in my arms, but skin to skin contact was not initiated (placing a naked baby directly on mom’s naked chest has many benefits, including regulating the newborn’s body temperature).
 
Fast forward to Asher’s birth: no bright lights, no sterile gowns (Gary caught Asher bare-handed!), no being told what position to push in (in fact, my midwife would have caught Asher wherever I had been — in the bathtub, on the bed, standing up walking around, even on the toilet — and being able to push how I wanted alleviated that painful ring of fire), no unnecessary medication (didn’t need that postpartum Pitocin after all), and immediate skin to skin contact.
 
Here’s what we as health care workers know: there are a lot of unnecessary interventions that occur in hospital births. Inductions often lead to epidurals because the pain associated with Pitocin-induced contractions is too great. Epidurals increase the need for more Pitocin and other interventions (artificially breaking the bag of waters, for example), all which lead to an increased risk of having a Cesarean section. It is difficult to keep our hands out of the labor process when we are taught in medical and nursing schools to fix something — we are supposed to fix what’s wrong. What the hell are we supposed to do if nothing is wrong??? We are taught to monitor patients, to read rhythm strips, evaluate blood pressure and oxygen saturations, to give medications. And anything outside the norm must mean something bad is about to happen. But not every deceleration that shows up on the fetal heart rate monitor means something is wrong.
 
And what’s more… when labor isn’t progressing steadily in the hospital, we have to step in. We can’t hold a woman in the hospital to labor for days. We need our hospital beds for the next patients, just like turning tables in a restaurant…
 
The more we learn about home birth (and hospital birth too, for that matter), the more it should be recognized as a safe option for healthy women with low-risk pregnancies. But while home birth is encouraged in other developed countries for women with uncomplicated pregnancies, it is frowned upon here in the United States. And what’s worse — women who end up needing transport to the hospital during or after their home birth are referred to as having a “failed home birth,” experiencing a less than smooth transition from home to hospital.
 
Choosing a home birth is an extremely personal decision, one that each expecting mother puts a lot of thought into. While it may not be the right choice for everyone, it should be a respected decision for those of us who chose to go the home birth route.
 
For me, laboring and delivering at home was a powerful experience, one in which I was allowed to be in the driver’s seat. In partnership with the expertise of my midwife, I was able to make educated decisions regarding my care and that of my unborn child’s. I believe that giving birth is a rite of passage — a spiritual, mind-blowing experience that every woman should be able to experience in the way she wants (barring any actual emergencies, of course — and I mean, actual clinical emergencies, not emergencies that were created because of unnecessary medical interventions).
 
One of the greatest gifts I received from my home birth was the relationship and friendship I developed with my midwife, the woman who shared in this single most intimate experience, the birth of my third child. It is a relationship that I believe is fostered through the time a home birth midwife takes with her client, the trust she puts in her client, and the advocacy she voices for the mother and her developing baby.
 
Below is the beautiful account of Asher’s birth that my home birth midwife wrote just a few weeks after Asher entered our lives and changed them forever…
 
It was a typical Wednesday night, I had cleaned up the kitchen from dinner when I noticed a missed call from Jaya on my phone. I quickly called back and wasn’t surprised when Gary answered the phone. (It’s not unusual for homebirth partners and husbands to call when their sweetheart is in labor. They usually have a lot invested in the process and outcome.)
Anyways, Gary was very calm and asked about Jaya’s ‘Braxton Hicks’ contractions that were coming every 5 minutes and lasting about a minute. In the background I hear Jaya let out a moan with a contraction while I’m asking Gary what time the ‘Braxton Hicks’ started. I think I interrupted him and said “let me speak with her.” He laughed and handed her the phone. Her voice had what I call a dark color ( I can’t help but describe sound with color after two music degrees) and she sounded distant – well on her way into Laborland. Jaya handed the phone back to Gary and I asked him to prepare the birth room – taping plastic onto the carpet in their bedroom and a layer of protective plastic underneath sheets on the bed.
It was go time for Jaya and baby Lefty’s birth! Even before hanging up I had loaded up my oxygen tank bag and birth stool-the first things I stash in my truck when I hustling off to a birth.
I should also say I’m proud of the fact that I’ve never missed a birth in 5 years of private practice. I’ve caught babies that were crowning as I ran in the door, babies whose mothers were dilated to 5cm for weeks without going into labor, a baby with a 10 minute labor…even a baby sneaking out in the water without the mother or birth team knowing! But I’ve never missed one yet. But when I heard her discomfort and how far into labor she sounded over the phone I had a sinking feeling this might be the one that got by me!
I was tempted to tell her not to push as I was hurrying out my front door – maybe it would detract her attention from the fact that she was so close and buy myself more time to race up the hill.
—Fast Forward 40 minutes of intense speed limit pushing driving up Skyway–
As I bustled in the Gregory’s front door Gary met me and helped me carry things. I ran into the back bedroom and settled my birth bag while Jakob and Gary finished taping the remainder of the plastic down on the floor. Jaya was on hands and knees in the front bathroom and working through some heavy contractions. I had a feeling she was close – sometimes super athletic mamas have quick labors, could be their tolerance to discomfort or just plain being into intense experiences. Well, it wasn’t my first time seeing one of these gals progress quickly in labor.
I sat with her for a few minutes after listening to baby Lefty and then I asked if I could check her cervical dilation. She was 6cm! Wowza! Pretty good for ‘Braxton Hicks’ contractions all day!
I left the bathroom to go finish setting up for the birth just as Paula, another midwife and my assist, pulled up in the driveway. We had just finished setting up when Jaya called out saying she felt like she had to push. Haha! Surprise!
Gary helped her out of the tub and down the hall into the master bedroom. While she was on hands and knees with some pushing, the bag of water broke clear. Good! We knew Lefty was tolerating labor well. After some time of pushing and several different positions where we could see Lefty’s head but still not crowning- we got her onto the trusty Amish birth stool I carry with me to all births. Lefty was born after 2 contractions and 2 pushes on the birth stool – God Bless the Amish!
Gary caught beautiful Lefty as I put pressure on the perineum to support Jaya’s tissue. He was wrapped up pretty good in his cord-a neck cord along with a chest-seat belt like umbilical cord configuration… not unusual but he did require some detangling! Using four hands, Gary and I gently rolled and unwrapped him. We held him out to Jaya and she reached down and gently lifted him out of our hands to hold precious Lefty for the first time (this is a very tender and raw moment for me – even without having children of my own -I know this first contact is really special). I loved how it felt appropriate for Jakob to call out “it’s a boy” and for everyone to be present.
This was a wondrous, celebrated, family oriented birth with Asher’s (formerly known as Lefty) older brothers filming and holding space as witnesses and assistants. The sense of family and love enveloped my experience working with the Gregory family – even the two amazing birth photographers were close family friends.

I also want to add a special note about Gary- the man responsible for me to be writing about this birth…
Several times he had mentioned being an older father and this was later confirmed by Declan calculating Gary’s age when Asher turns 20 years old…(you do the math..)
But my impression was that Gary brought heart-centered intelligence and wisdom of his years to this experience. Every time he spoke it was with a sense of collected mindfulness and reflective thinking. He had a sharp eye and didn’t miss the details, but his gaze was one of compassion and understanding. He was quick to make a joke and laugh while lovingly parenting and guiding Jakob and Declan.
He had described himself to me as an old school, east coast, traditional authoritarian.
So thank you for being yourself Gary-so present, involved, laughing and in love with your family…I think we could use more of your type these days.

Katarra Shaw, Licensed Midwife, admiring baby Asher several hours after his birth. November 30, 2018. Photo by Kristi Carlson.

Giving birth is such an intense, intimate experience. It is one of those single moments in a woman’s life that she will never forget. Most women want to preserve those birth memories in some form — whether through photographs, video, or stories from friends who were there for the big moment…

When I was pregnant, it was a struggle for me deciding whether or not I wanted a birth photographer. Sure, I wanted photos taken, but did I want a stranger in my home seeing me naked, with fluids dripping out of my most intimate parts? And how would I react? Would I want the camera on me? Would I even be aware of the photographer? Or would I tell her to get the heck out of my face?

Ultimately, I decided I did, in fact, want a birth photographer present at our home birth. The decision was an easy one when a client (now a good friend) offered to take our birth photos free of charge. We invited a second photographer (the daughter of a close friend) to take photos as well; she isn’t a professional like Kristi, but is a talented student and Kristi was willing to mentor her. The photos they both took left us breathless. I would like to share some of their work here, along with their own personal accounts of Asher’s birth (both of which left Gary and I in tears).

***

Jaya’s Birth Story, Through My Eyes

Haley MacPhail

 
“Gary Gregory” popped up on my phone while I was driving to target with my roommate. It was around 7pm. A rush of adrenaline ran quickly through my body, and I thought to myself, “Oh shit”. I picked up the phone and in my normal high pitched somethings-happening voice, I answered “Hellooo”? Declan’s sweet voice started speaking, “Um, hi, Haley I just wanted to tell you we think mom’s in labor but wait to come up but just pack your stuff, like now.” He immediately hung up the phone. I took a deep breath and smiled. 20 minutes later my phone rang once more, and it was Declan.
 
“Um, hi, Haley, mom’s in labor, so you need to come… like now.” I laughed, and said, “Give me 30 minutes, I’ll get up there as fast as I can.”
 
I was panicked. I was feeling every emotion: excitement, anxiety, adrenaline. It was all there. I hadn’t showered, hadn’t eaten, and had a final presentation the next morning. But those things didn’t matter at all in that moment. I shoved a couple outfits in my bag, grabbed my camera, and yelled goodbye to my roommates. It was about 9 pm, and I stopped by Dutch Bros. Coffee because I knew it would be a long, but incredible night. I wasn’t able to wipe the smile off my face when I told the employees what I was on my way too. They gave me the free coffee, and said “go go go!” The 30 minute drive up there felt like eternity, and it consisted of constantly checking my rear view mirror for police (I wasn’t speeding tooo bad).
 
When I stepped inside the house, I was immediately greeted by the other photographer and good friend, Kristi. The house was quiet. It felt sacred, and personal. I heard Jaya’s voice in the back, and it had begun. The midwife, Katarra, was on the ground with Jaya, along with that big smile on her face. Next to her was her husband, Gary. On the bed were Jakob and Declan. Declan had the video camera in hand, with nothing but awe and interest glued to his face. Jakob had more of a “holy crap I’m watching my mom give labor what is this” look on his face. But both, you could certainly tell, were beyond excited to be there with their mom.
 
The next 30 minutes or so were painful, but beautiful. I noticed a couple things that night that I want to mention, because they will stick with me for life. Jaya and Gary have a magical relationship, and the way they handled this birth was beyond me. I was standing and moving about the room while Jaya switched positions about every 5 minutes. In between contractions, Declan would ask a question about birth, whether it be “why is mom yelling so much?” or “are you sure she’s okay?” I did my best to comfort them both, making it known that is a natural process, and that their mom is the strongest of all.
 
The next thing that happened was only a comment, but one that stuck with me. Jaya was in a lot of pain, pushing in uncomfortable positions, and Gary was by her side the entire time. Now, of course husbands are supposed to do that, and they want to do that, but while I was focusing on Jaya, I was also focusing on Gary.
 
His eyes never wandered from her, his hand grip never let loose, and the excitement and surprise in his eyes were extraordinary.
 
As Jaya was finished with another painful contraction, Gary looks at all of us and back down to her, and he says, “Babe, your toes are beautiful”. I released my finger from the shutter, and stared at them. As they gazed into each other’s eyes, I had to hold back tears. Although this was a simple observation, you could tell that the love they have for each other is infinite. We all shared a laugh, and the room was vibrating with positive energy. This painful experience had turned into an enlightening process, one with excitement and laughter.
 
Jaya sat on the birthing stool, and out came 5lb Asher. I was focused on getting the right angle, and taking all the photos I possibly could. But then it hit me. After a few minutes of getting situated, Gary held this little ball of life in his arms. Next was his momma, on the bed, with Gary, Declan, and Jakob by her side. I felt a hand swipe across my back, and I tried so hard not to let out a stream of tears. But they fell, one by one down my cheek to my neck, while I rubbed my nose and held my hand over my mouth. Asher had come out of Jaya, into the most beautiful family I know. It was magical.
 
The pain, the blood, the cramps, the cravings, the headaches, and muscle pain, and the anxiety all went away. Disappeared. Into an abyss.
 
In this moment, that I had the honor to experience, nothing in the world mattered, except that family, on that bed, with a new light in their lives. Thank you Jaya, Gary, Declan, and Jakob for letting me be a part of something so beautiful. I will never forget it.

***

Photographing Jaya’s Birth

Kristi Carlson

 
Being a photographer is about capturing moments, capturing memories…
 
Being a photographer for an at home birth is life changing. Intimate, real…
 
As Jaya labored on the floor, her hands and knees pushed deeply into the covered carpet, her breathing steady and strong, the sounds of labor intense and powerful…energy flowed from each breath, in and out…to her husband who provided continued support through the gentlest of touches and soft whispers of encouragement, to her two boys who watched in amazement at their mother’s incredible strength, to her midwife who was there for her every moment, allowing Jaya to feel her way naturally through the process of birthing her child, to me… the photographer, trying to capture the emotions and life that was flowing within the room. Jaya pushed one last time, her body worn and tired, exhausted but steady, she birthed baby Asher. In that moment, the room fell silent as we watched Asher meet his family for the first time.
 
It doesn’t get more real than a home birth. A beautiful testament to the power of a woman, the love of a husband and father, and the bond between a mother and her children.

Every woman, from the time she finds out she’s pregnant, dreams, plans, and anticipates for that one big moment. The birth of her child.
 
I was very confident that I would know exactly when it was time. I had done this twice before, and both times the start of my labor had been exactly the same — my water had broken in bed, and one hour later contractions had started.
 
I knew when I lost my mucus plug that I would have about 24-48 hours until my water broke, if this labor started in the same fashion as my last two. When I hit about 35 weeks, my boys started asking me each morning before they left for school, “Have you lost your mucus plug yet?” It became a normal daily question, no different than if they’d asked, “Is it supposed to rain today?” or “Can you make my lunch today?” or “Can I go to the library after school?”
 
I pictured myself in early labor, while the boys were either sleeping or at school, alone with my husband. I had envisioned walking in between contractions, and when the contractions came, rocking back and forth in my husband’s arms, as if we were dancing. I was going to throw everything in the crock pot for taco soup, and make a chocolate cream pie to enjoy with my birth team after the baby was born, while the boys and I snuggled in bed and I nursed our new bundle of joy.

***

Wednesday, November 29th started like most days did for me: outside, feeding an entire herd of horses. I spent more than an hour filling and hanging a dozen hay bags, for on this particular day, I didn’t have a student helper like I normally do. After feeding the horses, I decided to shower before the equine dentist arrived to float three of our horses’ teeth.
 
While in the shower, I began feeling some pelvic pressure, along with some light cramping, but didn’t think anything of it, for I had been having Braxton-Hicks contractions for several days.
 
Jessica and her husband arrived before noon and I soon became occupied with the horses again. While Jessica was floating their teeth, I had to sit down, for the pelvic pressure was becoming increasingly more uncomfortable. I knew this had to be because the baby’s position was so low, but again, I didn’t think anything exciting was really happening inside my body. I was still 20 days before my due date, I hadn’t lost my mucus plug yet, and my bag of waters was still intact.
 
I continued about my day, feeling extremely exhausted by mid-afternoon. I tried lying down for a nap at 3, but was restless and uncomfortable. When my husband returned home at 3:30 after picking Declan up from school, I asked if I could accompany him to his coaching session, where he would be working on hitting with one of the high school baseball players. As we were walking to the car, I finally told him I had been having “pretty strong Braxton-Hicks contractions” all day (“strong” and “Braxton-Hicks” should not be used in the same context… that should have been clue #1). He asked me if I really wanted to go with him, and when I insisted that I did, he asked me not to disclose to anyone at the batting cages that I was having contractions (he didn’t want to worry anyone), to which I replied, “They’re just Braxton-Hicks contractions, Gary. I can walk and talk through them. They’re just Braxton-Hicks.” (Not sure if I was trying to convince him or myself of this “fact” that they were just Braxton-Hicks contractions.)
 
After batting practice, Gary offered to take me to dinner, and I agreed. We ended up at a local diner, where I enjoyed ½ a tuna melt, onion rings, a salad, and a slice of apple pie ala mode. I was hit with a few more strong Braxton-Hicks contractions (again, “strong” and “Braxton-Hicks” should not be used in the same context), one of them in particular that I really couldn’t ignore, although I didn’t say anything to Gary.
 
On the way out of the restaurant, I ran into a co-worker and her family. We chatted briefly, and I told them I’d be having my baby… in about two weeks!
 
It was when we were sitting in the parking lot of Jakob’s high school that I really noticed something was going on. I remember asking Gary how long Jakob was going to be, for I longed to get home immediately. I also remember telling Gary I was going to check my own cervix when we got home to “make sure these Braxton-Hicks contractions aren’t actually dilating my cervix.” (Clue #2: Braxton-Hicks contractions don’t dilate your cervix.)
 
As soon as we walked in the door at 6:30, I forgot all about checking my cervix. I headed straight to the bed, asking Gary to bring me a big glass of water. I was convinced I was having so many Braxton-Hicks contractions because I was dehydrated and had over-exerted myself with the horses in the morning.
 
I asked Gary not to leave my side as I tossed and turned in the bed, unable to find a comfortable position. (Clue #3: You should be able to relax through Braxton-Hicks contractions.) I could no longer talk through the contractions, and asked Gary to hand me my phone so I could use the timer on it to time “these Braxton-Hicks contractions.” They were 5 minutes apart, lasting one minute and 7 seconds in length, and peaking around 30 seconds. (Clue #4: Braxton-Hicks contractions are never this regular and don’t peak, and you should be able to talk through them.)
 
The pelvic pressure was increasing and I was experiencing some pretty intense back pain as well. (Clue #5: Braxton-Hicks contractions don’t come with intense pelvic pressure and back pain.) The word “labor” was mentioned, at which point an excited Declan came running down the hall. “Is Mommy going to have the baby?!?!?”
 
“No, no, Mommy is just practicing for the real thing.”
 
I lost it in between a couple contractions, asking Gary if I could really do this when it was time. I was crying, begging for encouragement, which he whole-heartedly dished out to me.
 
“Are you sure? If this is how strong Braxton-Hicks contractions are, I don’t know if I can do it when it’s the real thing. But I did do this without pain medication before, didn’t I?” (Losing my emotional shit and doubting my ability to handle labor — Oh, BIG clue #6.)
 
I finally asked Gary to get out my book What to Expect When You’re Expecting and to read aloud the page on Braxton-Hicks contractions. He did. And that’s when he determined, despite what I was arguing (I haven’t lost my mucus plug. My water hasn’t broken.) that we needed to call the midwife. I told him no. “Just draw me a warm bath. Let’s see if these contractions go away if I get relaxed enough.” (I was remembering when I thought I was in real labor with Declan, only to find out, much to my disappointment, that the contractions went away after a relaxing warm bath.)
 
In the bath I went, and three more strong contractions I had. Gary insisted he call the midwife, and this time I obliged, but added, “Just tell her I think I’m in labor.” After a brief conversation with Katarra, she determined I really was in labor, instructing Gary to set up the bedroom for the delivery. I still wasn’t sure.
 
While Gary and Jakob got things set up for the delivery and Declan added more hot water to my now-lukewarm bath, I got out of the tub to use the toilet. And that’s when it happened: I had my bloody show. Now I believed I really was in labor.
 
Declan called our birth photographers and told them to come, and come now, and also made a few other phone calls, letting our inner circle know baby Gregory was on his or her way.
 
When Katarra arrived shortly after, she checked my cervix in the bathtub in between contractions. I was six centimeters with a bulging bag of waters. My mind had a hard time wrapping around that information. She left me to set up her supplies as her assistant midwife, Paula, showed up to lend a hand. Gary returned to my side.
 
It must have been only twenty minutes later that I was on all fours in the bathtub, trying not to vomit down the drain as the contractions stacked on top of each other. I whined that I had to get out of the tub, but couldn’t actually bring myself to get out as I watched Gary drain the water. When I yelled, “I’m feeling really pushy!” I heard Katarra calmly yell from the bedroom, “Get her out of the tub and get her back here.”
 
I walked straight down the hall and landed on all fours on top of a shower curtain taped to the carpet in our bedroom. My water finally broke with that first push. I continued pushing. I pushed and pushed and pushed. I tried pushing on all fours. I tried pushing on my back in a semi-reclined position. I tried pushing sitting up. I tried pushing while side-lying.

The breaks in between my contractions were heaven. I had no desire to push, no pressure, no pain. I was euphoric. The breaks were long and beautiful and I laughed and made jokes and had serious inquiries and listened to the quiet conversations around me.
 
When I became discouraged that I wasn’t making progress and I was becoming exhausted from all the pushing, Declan reached out, gently caressed my shoulder, and said, “Once you push the baby out, you don’t have to push anymore.” How true that statement was.

I admitted to having anxiety about the “ring of fire” and thought that maybe my own psyche was inhibiting my ability to successfully push this baby out. Katarra put a tincture under my tongue to help me relax, and soon after, I asked if I could try squatting.
 
I got up onto Katarra’s birth stool, grasped the sides with my hands, leaned forward slightly, and that’s when I felt a wave come over my entire body. It was intense. It was uncontrollable. It was painful and heavy and beautiful and graphic and spiritually enlightening. I was giving birth.

Katarra and Gary guided out the baby’s head in unison, gracefully spinning his body around and around when he arrived with the umbilical cord wrapped around his neck twice. The cord was also wrapped around his body, and I was in awe as I watched my husband and my midwife twirl him as if he were a dancer in a ballet. I was lost in this surreal moment, photographing this one moment in my mind, as I heard Jakob announce that he was, in fact, a boy!
 
I reached out and took my baby into my arms, grabbing him from Gary’s bare hands. He looked up at me, and I studied him with intent passion, most of his umbilical cord still inside me. His life-organ, my placenta, had not yet delivered. We were not one being anymore, he no longer lived inside me, yet we were still intimately connected.

I looked up at Kristi, one of our two birth photographers and smiled, “I have three boys, just like you.”

I had been gifted the title of Mother yet again.

Photo credits: Kristi Carlson & Haley MacPhail

When I was pregnant this last time, with my third child, at 35 years old, I had some very different reactions when my husband and I first announced our pregnancy. Of course, there were the typical “Congratulations!” “So happy for you!” “Wonderful news!” reactions.
 
But then there were the whys. Why would you want another child (when your other two are 12 and 15)? Why would you want to bring another child into this crazy world? Why would you want to have another child at your age? Why would you want to start all over again?
 
And then there were those who wanted to know if this pregnancy was an accident (maybe surprise would have been a better word choice).
 
No, Asher wasn’t an accident. He wasn’t a surprise either. (And no, we weren’t trying for a girl… not sure how you do that, actually. You get what you get, right?)
 
Maybe I wanted another child because I couldn’t imagine sending my children off to college before I turned 40.
 
Maybe I wanted to know what it’s like to actually make a baby — to go to bed with the man I love and consciously make a baby (because yes, the first two were surprises).
 
To do it. To do it on purpose.
 
Maybe I wanted another child because I am terrified, fucking terrified, to leave my childbearing years behind me, despite how I always claim I’m not afraid of getting older.
 
Maybe it’s because I’m terrified, fucking terrified, to be alone, and I’m acutely aware everyday (thanks to my smart ass teenager who always reminds us all just how old Dad really is) that my husband is 15 years older than me and may leave me behind earlier than I’d like, but hell, at least I’ll have a child still at home.
 
Maybe I just missed the experience of child birth. The rad, spiritual, painful, uplifting, fucking empowering experience of child birth.
 
Maybe I missed that newborn stage. That newborn smell. Those little faces they make, the sounds they coo, the cuteness, the smallness, the helplessness.
 
Maybe I just wanted someone to need me so badly again that his life, his entire existence, literally depended on me.
 
Whatever the reason, here I am, sitting in front of the computer, trying to get a moment to myself while my newborn sleeps. I haven’t showered yet today. My shirt smells like curdled milk. My hands were covered in poop earlier. My hair is a mess. I cried over a broken electric tooth brush yesterday. I am far from the sexy woman my husband made love to when we first created Asher. And I have several loads of laundry to do, thanks to the dirty cloth diapers that have piled up in our bathroom.
 
And now, ask me again, why. Why would I chose all these sleepless, exhausting nights (and days) to the life I used to live just a year ago — the sometimes glamorous life of a career woman, who had such an exciting hobby (insert photo of me galloping on the back of a beautiful horse through a stunning field with my hair blowing in the wind).
 
Why?
 
Shit, I don’t know why. But I can say this with utmost certainty. I wouldn’t change all these sleepless, exhausting nights (and days) for the life I used to live just a year ago.
 
Jakob was the one who turned me, a young woman who never wanted children, into a mother, one week after my twentieth birthday. And while I still have no desire to attend any Mommy-and-Me classes, and I am still mostly clueless about the “right” way to raise a child, I couldn’t be more proud to be “Mommy.”
 
So I’ll take the half a dozen or more diaper changes today, tomorrow, and for the next few years. I’ll take the shirts covered in my own soured breast milk, and the bags under my eyes, and the piled up laundry.
 
I might even write a love note or two for my older children’s lunches, in between nursing the baby, feeding the horses, and trying to stay sane.
 
And P.S. I will gallop on the back of a beautiful horse again, with my hair blowing in the wind.

There are so many things we still don’t talk about. Sure, a huge social media campaign has thousands of women admitting #MeToo. So, that is one step forward. We are less afraid now to admit it has happened. But we don’t talk about what #MeToo means. We don’t talk about how years after the incident we can be reminded of it so acutely that we feel as if it has just happened. We don’t talk about how what should be normal — even positive — life events can cause us to think irrationally because of what happened. We don’t talk about how it has affected the way we look at ourselves in the mirror, what we think of our vaginas, our sexuality, or our self-worth. We don’t talk about how, even after months, or years, of counseling, sometimes it is still hard to come to terms with what happened. We don’t talk about how one day we can feel completely healed and empowered and the next day we want to scream and cry and ask why.
 
Yesterday, I found myself in the operating room of my own hospital. I had to go in for a suction D & C (dilation and curettage) procedure to remove the partially retained placenta that my uterus had held on to for two weeks after giving birth. I was absolutely terrified. Not of the procedure itself, but of being under anesthesia and not being completely awake and aware while my body — my vagina — was on display so that surgical instruments could fix what my body had failed to do. I had tried, fruitlessly, to convince the surgeon to do the procedure using either a spinal or local anesthetic, either of which would have allowed me to be awake and alert during the entire surgery. When I refused general anesthesia, he at least agreed to do the procedure under conscious sedation. So while I’d be asleep, thanks to the drug propofol, I’d at least be breathing on my own, would awaken immediately after the procedure (thanks to the short half-life of propofol), and could safely breast feed my newborn afterwards.
 
But as I entered the operating room, after a tearful restless night, I wanted nothing more than to get up off that gurney and walk out of the OR suite. My circulating nurse was a man. One of the technicians who would be assisting the male doctor was a man. The anesthesiologist was a man. These were all my coworkers. I knew them to be professional, competent men who chose to work in health care for many of the same reasons I had. And they would take extra special care of me because I was one of them… Right? That was the rational part of my mind that convinced me to stay, coupled with the knowledge that I knew I really did need medical intervention. Being a registered nurse, I knew the risks associated with doing nothing and they were risks I wasn’t sure I wanted to take. I also knew I would feel a whole lot better once the placenta that I no longer needed left my body completely.
 
The last thing I remember as I lay on the OR table was the anesthesiologist showing me the syringe of the white milky medicine after I had insisted he show me the propofol dose. He said he was going to push the medication into my IV as soon as the surgeon entered the room, and the next thing I remember is seeing that surgeon standing at my feet. Before I even had a chance to yell, “Wait!,” I was asleep.
 
Wait!… my entire body is still covered. Several blankets were on top of me. I still had the disposable mesh panties on that my intake nurse had given me. My legs weren’t placed in the stirrups, allowing my body to be in that wonderful lithotomy position, a position that allows the doctor full access to a woman’s most private area; that position all women come to know well from the time they first start having sex, when it’s recommended they go in for regular pap smear tests. Wait!… my hospital gown is still covering me completely.
 
Wait!… I want to be the one to remove my own panties. I want to remove the blankets and expose my own self. Wait! I want to lift my own legs into the stirrups. Wait! I don’t want to be moved and manipulated and positioned for surgery while asleep. Wait! I want to see what you are doing to my body…
 
But how do you explain to an entire room of penises that there was a time in your life when your vagina was abused, your body manipulated, and you weren’t in control, so you just want to be in control now? How do you explain to these men, whose bodies have never been scrutinized or otherwise objectified in the same way your body has, that it terrifies you to have things done to you that you aren’t aware of, even if you know what is going to happen? How do you talk about things like this? How?
 
And so I kept quiet. Because I didn’t want to be that patient. That patient who doesn’t cooperate. That patient who insists on receiving her treatment differently. That patient who is trying to tell her entire medical team how to do their jobs. I didn’t want to be that patient. That difficult patient.
 
I awoke from my sedative state and immediately a few tears started streaming down my face. I hid those tears from my surgeon, my anesthesiologist, my nurse. I asked for my baby and my husband brought him to me while I was still in the post-anesthesia care unit.
 
We returned home a couple hours later and then I cried. I cried. And cried. And cried. I cried for the body that had failed me. I cried for what had been done to my body when I wasn’t fully aware. I cried for the cervix that stung inside of me, and the uterus that cramped, and I mourned for the pain that I wasn’t allowed to feel, the pain that had caused this discomfort inside me afterwards. I cried for what it meant to be a woman. I cried for what I had to sacrifice, the privacy I had to give up, in order to have the beautiful, amazing, most wondrous ability to give life. I cried for what happened to me more than fifteen years ago. I cried for the girl I was then, and the woman who couldn’t leave her behind sometimes. I cried for the inability to explain why I was crying when my concerned husband pressed me to tell him what was wrong. I cried for isolating myself from him, and from my older boys. And then I cried because I was crying.
 
The next morning, against my doctor’s orders and my better judgment, I walked outside just after first light, and stood in the barn. I was still bleeding and sore, my body exhausted, but I needed to return to some fragment of my life before I gave birth. I stood in the barn and cried while I filled multiple hay bags. I cried while I carried those hay bags over to the horses. I cried while I hung the hay bags in the horse paddock. I cried as I walked between the horses, stroking some of them with my bare hands as they followed me to their food. I cried until I couldn’t cry anymore.
 
And then I went inside.

One of my students, 15-year-old Jenna Asnault, finished her first 50-mile endurance ride back in November at the Gold Rush Shuffle. Last month, she wrote a beautiful testament of her ride and her experience trying out different equestrian disciplines. Her story is both inspiring and wonder-filled. Reading it brought tears to my eyes…

Passing Ships

by Jenna Asnault

When I first became interested in horses and riding, I was not sure what I wanted my “thing” to be. I knew of so many different riding styles and disciplines, like ships passing by the shore, but was unsure which I wanted to practice and improve in. I didn’t know which ship I wanted to board.

The first ship I saw was the one carrying my neighbor and her horses – the first horses I ever rode – and her style of riding. Primarily with her, I just rode on the trails in Bidwell Park. I have always enjoyed the trail rides, but I knew that they were not all I wanted to do.

But another ship sailed by. On board was a different lady with a different style and a different discipline. So I started taking lessons from her. I soon discovered that she competed in schooling shows with her students, and under her training, I ended up in two different shows. Both resulted in ribbons for me and general pride in my accomplishment. However, I was not really learning as much as I could from this trainer, and I was not fond of her ideas about training and disciplining horses. So, I jumped off that boat and swam out to find a new one.

The next boat I boarded was closely related to my previous one. It was barrel racing, which was an exciting sport that I knew many people participated in and enjoyed. But poor preparation for my first official barrel race resulted in the horse throwing me off on the home stretch. I had by no means lost my confidence in my riding ability, but I did come to the conclusion that barrel racing was not for me.

But before I could commit myself to something knew, an unexpected boat sailed by and picked me up. On Christmas day, 2012, my neighbor gave me my first horse. He was a horse that I had been riding and caring for frequently, and who I adored. I rode him frequently in Bidwell Park, taking trail rides of varying lengths, exploring the park further, and just having a great adventure. Three spectacular years that horse and I were together, but his death in 2016 transferred me to a whole new ship as his sailed away forever and marked a turning point in my life. He had been a good first horse, but now I was ready to move forward and try something new. But I still was unsure of which ship I wanted to board next.

I started by boarding a ship that got me back into taking lessons. I found a new trainer, who was an old friend of my neighbor’s, and was better than my previous trainer by a wide margin. I knew she had been doing endurance riding for a long time, but did not quite picture myself as an endurance rider. I decided to give it a try though, like I had done with shows and barrel racing. Before I knew it, I was all aboard the SS Endurance. But recalling my lack of success in the previous disciplines, my expectations were not high.

My trainer invited me out to my first ride in October of 2016. I had a fantastic time at the first endurance ride. The course was beautiful, the weather was perfect, and I ended up finishing in the top ten. But I still was unsure if I wanted to stay aboard the SS Endurance. The second ride I did, however, was different.

Most of the ride was just a normal fifty-mile endurance ride. Similar to the first ride, this one was beautiful with gorgeous weather. The first loop was a lot of fun. We rode happily around Camp Far West Lake, admiring the stunning landscape and laughing as we trotted down the trail. We had quite an adventure when our horses decided to have a race and we had to regain control. The copious amount of mud was frustrating, and we ran into some trouble at the vet check halfway through, when my horse’s heart rate was not slowing to the ideal rate. In addition, Jaya’s horse had a bloody nose, which concerned her and further delayed our departure time. I was worried we might have to pull out of the ride, but we managed to continue into the second loop.

It was slow going at first, since the trails were dense with mud. But we soon arrived at a long, straight trail that was much less muddy than the rest of the trails were. It started with a very forward trot to cross the whole length of the extensive trail. Before I knew it, we were all cantering.

It had been a long time since I had had a good, long canter like that. I felt the roaring of the wind on my face and in my ears, I felt the horse moving effortlessly beneath me, and my hair being thrown backwards. I heard the pounding of three sets of hooves, Jaya’s joyous whooping, and the purest, lightest, most liberating sense of freedom I had ever felt. I stretched my arms upward and out, drinking in the feeling and letting it fill me. Everything I had ever worried about or stressed over had been left behind at the beginning of that trail, and now nothing mattered except me and the horse. But even when we slowed our horses to a walk again, the feeling lingered.

It was that day, that moment that I decided I wanted to ride endurance. I realized it was what I had always loved and wanted to do. For years I had ridden on trails, and loved it, and all I wanted was to just ride on trails all day, which is what endurance riding is. I found my calling on that winding ride, and now there is no way I can leave the SS Endurance.

I realized that day that I believe in long trail rides.

My life, like everyone else’s, has been a crazy winding roller coaster. With all the ups and downs, those horses and those trails have always been there. I know that when the going gets rough, I can always go riding. Discovering a blooming passion for endurance has given me a vision of what I would like my life in the future to look like. I have begun building a scene of my future around the base of horses and endurance. My newly discovered passion has given me a greater sense of purpose to fulfil and direction to follow.