We've Come a Long Way, Baby

It’s true what they say. All of it. “Time goes by so fast. They grow up so quickly. The stages are all difficult in their own way”. None of that “advice” helped me as I struggled to pull myself into motherhood. And even since, at almost 5 years as a mother – I needed to learn these lessons on my own. I needed to be in the stage, struggle, and move through it – for me, these were not magical phrases that somehow made it all easier. I held my breath and nodded politely through gritted teeth when they were passed down to me.

And now here I am. With an almost 5 year-old, a preschool graduate. Repeating all of the above “advice” out loud, but only to my people, the ones who would never say I told you so. My sweet baby has been going to the same “school” since he was 5 months old. How cool is that? His daycare years turned right into his preschool days and he did life surrounded by teachers that changed his diaper when he was a baby and helped him to potty train as a toddler.

He made it. We made it. Through the first illnesses when we had to rush to pick him up, to the first stitches as an early walker, right on to the “oh my god is my child an a**hole” overreaction when we found out he hit a classmate. There have been countless days in this 5 years when I have asked him if he grew up at school today – singing the ABCs, counting in Spanish, writing his name, and showing off his newly learned yoga poses. Recently his response to that question has been “Yes, mom, that’s what big kids do” or “Yes, mom, because I’m going to kindergarten next year.”

(I’m not crying, you’re crying)

I’m tempted to stay stuck in the past – wishing I was home just a liiiiiitle bit more, wanting to make sure he knows I’m sorry that I yelled, or wondering why I never pulled my shit together to keep a daily journal for him. That's not helpful – for him or for my anxiety. He reminds me that we can always try again.

In almost one month I will be in Uganda – a dream trip that I have had in my heart for years. It will be the longest I have ever been away from him and I’m terrified. My mind wants to spend the days creating worst case scenarios and making up intricate stories about how he will forget about me and not love me quite as much when I return. Logically, I understand how ridiculous this sounds and I have been on high alert about it all to avoid passing down my anxiety to him. As if somehow my invisible thoughts will escape my brain and drift into his little body.

Sometimes when I give him an extra treat or we stay up a little late he will say, “mommy, do I get this because you love me so much?” The question pierces my heart – “no baby, I always love you so much, no matter what.” We are working on reminding him that he is always an amazing little boy, not “good” or “bad” – and that sometimes he just makes bad choices. I want him to know unconditional love – deep in his bones. I want him to feel it.

So, while traveling across the globe without him will be painful and scary – I think it will be good for both of us – we are starting new chapters. I will honor his wild curiosity, respect his independence, and watch him grow his own way. And I hope he sees a mother who has a heart and passion to teach and serve others, chase her dreams, and continue to choose courage over comfort. Besides, “Courage is a heart word. Be brave. Love hard.” – Brené Brown. I don’t think he is the only one graduating, moving on to new lessons in a new school – I think mothers graduate too. While our diplomas aren’t physical, they surely leave marks on our hearts. Like the little pink heart emoji with yellow stars on it – we learn through each stage and celebrate it as we watch our little ones grow.


On Faith + Gratitude

I need permission. Permission to celebrate this day. Permission to get weepy and emotional. Permission to look back in wonder at how the most difficult two weeks of our lives unfolded. Permission to admit that I didn’t think we would make it through that time.

3 years ago today, when you were just 2 months, 3 weeks, and 6 days old we brought you to Children’s Hospital for what we believed would be a surgery to remove neuroblastoma. Cancer. There was a mass inside of you, in your tiny chest.

It has taken me 3 years to fully process the experience, to understand how it made me feel as a mother, and to be able to grasp the small miracles that happened along the way and learn from them.

If we’re being honest, I didn’t do a great job as your mom those two weeks. I was stuck in a depression deeper than I ever thought possible and could barely take care of myself. I simply could not wrap my head around the fact that after I was torn apart and put back together again, twice, you would be taken apart too. Hope came and went. Some days I believed that everything would be OK, and other days I was convinced you would die. There wasn’t a day in those two weeks that I did not cry, and I would lie in bed each night and ask your dad “what if” questions.  I was not calm, I did not process my emotions, and my “motherly instincts” hadn’t kicked in yet.

But I prayed. A lot. I told God that I wouldn’t only pray during hard times anymore, if please just this one time, everything could be OK.  I realize the two gifts that this experience gave to us were a new understanding of gratitude and faith.

Grandma and I waited with you for your X-ray results to come back. You were asleep in your car seat when the door to the waiting room opened. It had taken way too long, and we had already started to get anxious. When the door opened and there were 6 people entering the room, my stomach dropped. They found a mass. It was in your chest, near your lungs, but also near your spine. I felt like time stopped and I dropped to my knees and broke down.

Grandma tried to stay calm, but we both cried so hard that we shook. I remember her telling me that I was your mom, and that I was going to have to make big decisions. I realize now that I have had quite a bit of shame about not staying optimistic, patient, and calm.

You endured a lot of tests within a short period of time. As a tiny human, there wasn’t much more that you wanted to do other than eat and sleep, and many of those tests interrupted both. We spent hours in various rooms at the hospital and many of those times you weren’t allowed to have any food. Nurses would come in and help Grandma and I do the “rock ‘n sway”.

Your first test was an MRI and you had to be given anesthesia. When you came out two nurses had to stand over your crib for almost 2 hours. They just watched you, and so did we. It was after this test that the doctors used terms like “mass”, “tumor”, “biopsy”, “cancer”, and “oncology”. Within a couple of days we had a team of doctors to meet with who would make a plan for your surgery as well as your “treatment”.

When we brought you in for a Cat Scan there was a lovely nurse who made it her life (OK, maybe day) goal to help get you to sleep so that you didn’t need to go under again. We put you in a special board and she found us a dark room and Grandma rocked and shushed for so long that you finally fell asleep. The nurse put a huge blanket over you and carried you to the machine. You slept through the entire test This made her (and our) day.

After that big win, Grandma and I decided we could stop for a beer to celebrate. On that drive, I accidentally bumped the car in front of us at a stop light (OK, full disclosure: Grandma told me to look at a picture of you that she took). We got out and the driver immediately saw the Children’s Hospital stickers on our shirts. He asked if we were coming from the hospital. Tears streamed from my eyes as I explained that you had neuroblastoma, and that you’d be operated on soon. His name was Charlie, and he used to work at the hospital with your surgeon! He spent 10 minutes talking to us about how wonderful your doctors were, and how he had great faith in Children’s Hospital.

There was that word. Faith. I had struggled with it for years. I had faith, but in what? In God, in a God that I struggled to define. This experience helped me understand what faith meant to me; and that it was born from gratitude.

Six days before your surgery I reached out to the priest that married us. Through pouring tears I told him that I felt like my world was collapsing around me, that I wanted his help in supported your dad, and that I needed to find my faith. I look back at the message I sent him and can still feel my eyes burning and shoulders heaving as I typed it. Within 4 minutes of sending the message Father Whitney called me. He asked if I was home and what our address was. He said he would come over that evening and pray with us. We called Grandma and Grandpa Lundquist and your aunts, uncles, and cousins to come over that evening and pray with us. I didn't really know what this would mean, or how to do it, but I knew I needed it.

That night, in the most perfect way, you were baptized in our living room. You were surrounded by family, and had hundreds of people praying for you and sending you loving energy. For the first time in days, I felt good. I felt hope. I felt like somehow, I had the strength to be a (good enough) mother. And I felt like I had found some faith.

“Faith is a place of mystery, where we can find the courage to believe in what we cannot see and the strength to let go of our fear of uncertainty.” –Brené Brown

In between all of your tests and your surgery, Grandma suggested we start a gratitude list. We furiously scribbled big things, little things, and everything in between down to be grateful for. I carried this crumbled paper with me everyday. I credit this experience to helping me understand that gratitude is a practice- with action steps- and not just an attitude. 

A list of everyday Gratitudes that we carried with us

A list of everyday Gratitudes that we carried with us

Each day our eyes and ears were open to all of the little things that could be right with the world. The nurse who brought us graham crackers, my brand new Peps friends who started us a meal train, the fact that you pooped, the women we met whose daughter’s cancer treatment was cut in half because she was doing so well. We scribbled all of it down. And when our minds went haywire, we took out the sheet and took turns reading all of the things out loud.

“There is no joy without gratitude.” –Brené Brown

Your surgery was supposed to take 4-7 hours. The recovery would be at least a week in the hospital, followed by whatever other treatments you would need. One day just before your surgery, when it was particularly hard to calm you, I stepped outside of our hospital room and fell apart. I was sure that I didn't have what it took to go through whatever was ahead of us. The nurse who helped us earlier hugged me for a long time.  She told me that it was very likely that I had a long road ahead of me, and that I needed to be there for you. I had everything I needed to be a good mother, I just had to get past the fear.

We were in a tiny glass room waiting for the nurses to bring you back into surgey. That morning friends and family texted and sent messages, wishing you well, praying and sending hope. Charlie, the man whose car I hit, sent me a text to tell us that he was praying for you, and that he had faith. We all took turns rocking you. We tried to smile through tears. When the nurse finally came to take you back I can remember handing you over to him. You looked so tiny in his arms, and he walked away for what felt like forever.

Just short of two hours into surgery we got paged. The nurse at the nurse’s station told us that surgery was over. I was hysterical and kept shouting that it was supposed to take much longer. The nurse dialed into the operating room and handed me the phone. The operating room nurse said, “Miss Jankus, surgery went well. There was no need for a bone marrow biopsy.” I knew immediately that this meant that you did not have cancer. I didn't know how, or why, or what it meant, but I felt relieved and could hear the nurse smile through the phone.

The doctor came into the tiny room we waited in and had images of what was called a pulmonary sequestration. You tried to grow a third lung, and that mass showed up on your X-ray. He was elated; we sat in that room and cried tears of joy. The surgeons were able to remove this lobe of lung tissue with no issues and said that you can grow into a perfectly healthy boy.

This is a picture of the extra lobe that was removed from your chest. The doctor noted that it was "a healthy piece of tissue."

This is a picture of the extra lobe that was removed from your chest. The doctor noted that it was "a healthy piece of tissue."

We will practice gratitude together every day. We will remind each other of the big things and the little things that we have to be grateful for. We will share this gratitude with others, because I think I’ve learned that gratitude is contagious. October 30 is a special day, a day to recognize and remember your strength and our blessings.

“Spirituality is recognizing and celebrating that we are all inextricably connected to each other by a power greater than all of us, and that our connection to that power and to one another is grounded in love and compassion. Practicing spirituality brings a sense of perspective, meaning, and purpose to our lives.” –Brené Brown


Labor, Delivery + the Birth of Intuition

This is my account of my bru-tiful (brutal + beautiful) adventure. My birth story includes loss, of roles and temporarily of faith, but it also includes the birth of a whole new woman in ways well beyond motherhood.

Around 2:30 am during my first day of labor, I was still awake, hopping on the exercise ball every 9 or so minutes. It had been about 8 ½ hours. The contractions had started lasting longer and becoming more intense. I couldn’t bounce them out anymore and I called my mom in tears.

We drove to the hospital and got rejected 3 times. The first, on Saturday, was when my water broke. Or so I thought. Turns out I just peed all over everything. They gave me a shot and told me nice things about going home and “getting some rest”. There may have been a few hours of mild relief. As in, I wasn’t crying.

Something wasn’t right. I felt it in my gut.

By Sunday my husband brought a folding chair into our shower. I was only comfortable underneath the pounding, hot water. Mostly standing and rocking. And crying. And screaming into the walls every 4 or 5 minutes when the contractions came. I didn't eat or sleep. I didn't think much, either. There was an intense pain that swallowed my entire being.

As I think back on the experience, I fight with disappointment and anger, mostly towards myself. I knew by the second time we went to the hospital that something was not right. I knew. Not because I read a blog post about it, or went to a class for it. I knew because I felt it in my gut. And I should have listened to that intuition and spoke up about her power and wisdom.

Instead I was sent home. My water hadn’t broke and I was not dilated. At all. So I labored. For  over 4 days.

The drive to the hospital on Tuesday was brutal. I clenched the door handle in the car with my eyes closed, groaning and screaming like a wild beast every 2 minutes. My husband drove with determination and care, and a deep knowing not to speak to me.

The nurse was kind and rubbed my naked back as I stood in the tiny hospital shower, asking me questions for check-in in between my contractions. “It’s Ok, sweetie”, “take your time”, “make sure you breathe”. This was my birth story, and I was already disappointed by it. 

Looking back, I realize that I had lost my breath through the whole experience.

Brene Brown’s fifth guidepost for Whole-Hearted Living is “Cultivating Intuition and Trusting Faith: Letting Go of the Need for Certainty”. She says,

Intuition is not a single way of knowing - it’s our ability to hold space for uncertainty and our willingness to trust the many ways we’ve developed knowledge and insight, including instinct, experience, faith and reason.

I fought with my longing for a natural birth. The doctors told me that I needed an epidural, that I wouldn't have the strength to delivery my baby after laboring for four days. I felt like something was stolen from me, that I had somehow already failed as a mother with my son still inside of me. My connection with myself had somehow been severed.

A new nurse came in and I asked if it was normal to feel sick from the epidural. She assured me that side effects varied and that my convulsion-esque shaking was nothing to be worried about. I told her that my throat was really sore, it was hard to breathe, and my body was achey like the flu.

I knew something wasn’t right. I felt it.

I had developed a virus called “chorio”, most likely from prolonged labor. My heart rate was rising quickly, and so was Micah’s. New groups of people were moving in and out of the room and before we knew it, we were being prepped for surgery.

The first part of the C-Section felt quick, getting Micah out went well. The doctor apologized for the wait in stitching me up and said that my intestines weren’t cooperating. “They keep popping back out”. Little did I know this was only the beginning of the long road to recovery for me.

I got to hold my sweet baby boy for a few minutes before the nurses came in to check me after the surgery. 

The nurse put pressure on my pelvic area and I screamed in pain as blood started shooting out of me. Within seconds Micah was taken from my arms, a hospital alarm was going off and I was being rushed down the hallway by nurses.

I remember looking at the nurse as she ran next to my bed. She held my hand and wiped the tears from my eyes. I only had one question, “Am I going to die?” She stroked my hair out of my face and never answered me. 

When I woke up the doctor explained that I had hemorrhaged. I had lost a lot of blood and would need a blood transfusion. My iron was dangerously low and they were starting intravenous supplementation. I had a long road ahead of me. A road to personal recovery that would be made more winding and bumpy because I was also responsible for my tiny human. 

How could motherhood already feel so impossible, when I had only held my son for mere minutes?

At my two week check up I limped into the examine room, showing the doctor my swollen, red incision that was burning hot to the touch and oozing. It was infected. I would have to be reopened. Immediately. My brain could not process what was happening quickly enough, I felt completely out of control of my body. And disconnected. How could this body, that grew a beautiful baby boy be so damaged now?

The first month of motherhood is an absolute blur to me. Most days I was too sick and weak to care for my baby. My mom and husband opened my incision twice a day for 3 weeks, packing and unpacking it with bandages. I journeyed back and forth to the hospital every other day, first to have my incision examined, then to receive a round of intravenous iron.  Each time my wound was reopened I lost a part of myself. I didn't have the strength to nourish myself.

My spirit was deeply wounded, as a woman and a mother.

My intuition was trying to speak to me and I pushed her away. I did that frequently during my first year of motherhood. Micah is 2 1/2 now. I am at a place of peace as I reflect on how each part of my journey into motherhood has been a gift and a lesson. 

I worked hard these 2 1/2 years, tapping into what my intuition feels like, what her voice sounds like and how she breathes. I go back into the memories, the ones that sometimes still bring me to my knees, and examine how I was able to grow from the first month. To look at how strong I was, and how capable my body is.

It is still tender to place my hand on my incision, I still feel sensations of stretching and burning within me. Most days, tears well in my eyes when I examine the scar in the mirror. The tears have morphed from tears of fear and disgust to those of gratitude, for the voice I found and the love I am able to receive.

“And no one will listen to us until we listen to ourselves.” Marianne Williamson

What is your story? Is it a birth story, a story of loss and grief, does your story jump rope with depression and anxiety? Share it. Use your story to empower your sisters. To be heard. To listen to your intuition. To write your own ending. 

Storytelling is one of the most powerful tools we have for making sense of the world... Our deepest source of wisdom lives inside our stories. Brene Brown