Lift Up Your Hearts!

The State of Florida has seized a woman's assets and imprisoned her because they think they can make better decisions for her than she can herself.

Lore Farrell's story should frighten us all.
Why should an 85-year-old woman be able to be forced out of her home, be forbidden to make her own legal and medical decisions, and even told what kind of shoes she can and cannot wear, just because living on her own his riskier? The Orlando Sentinel article calls hers a "sad story with no villains," but I see plenty of villainy in the attitude that gives the State such power over a person who has committed no crime. If Lore Farrell thinks the risk of bleeding to death on the floor of her own home is preferable to the living death she feels at an assistive living facility, that choice should be hers, not some bureaucrat's, well-intentioned or not.

A 62-year-old British woman is being called selfish, ridiculous, irresponsible, and unnatural because of the recent birth of her son, who was conceived through in vitro fertilization with a her husband's sperm and a donated egg. I have serious problems with the extremes to which many people are resorting to combat infertility, but age has nothing to do with it. A post-menopausal woman who uses unnatural means to conceive a child is no more absurd than an older man with a Viagra prescription.

"Babymoon" is a term that didn't exist when I was having babies. I'm not too clear on the definition even now. To some it means taking your baby with you on vacation, which to me falls into the category of "well, duh!" but apparently it's now considered a big deal.

To other folks it means a period of seclusion following the birth of a baby, during which friends and family are encouraged to stay away for two weeks or even a month.

The definition that fits best in this household is a period of time in which the new parents are relieved of some of some of their normal responsibilities in order to rest, recover, and bond together as a family. In particular, the new mother is provided sufficient help so that she can concentrate on meeting the needs of the new baby (and any other children she might have) and on her own recovery.

I wasn't sure what to think of this at first. In my day we were rebelling against the medical profession, which treated childbirth as an illness, and kept women pretty much confined to their beds for several days after birth. Inspired by the example of primitive women, who would give birth in the morning and be back working in the fields in the afternoon, we superwomen thought we could do it all ourselves.

By the time our first child was born, my own mother was dead and my mother-in-law was out of the country. Even had it been possible for someone to come stay with me for a while, however, I don't think I would have encouraged it. Having a baby was a perfectly normal event; why should I need pampering? Don't get me wrong: I greatly appreciated the days Porter took off from work to help out, and meals brought by friends were a wonderful blessing (especially since I gained some new recipes in the process). But on the whole, I was doing the whole homemaker routine on my own: cooking and cleaning as well as breastfeeding and changing diapers. That was my job and it never occurred to me to expect help. I liked it that way.

I was nuts.

I'm glad Heather and Jon have welcomed us into their home before and after Noah's birth. I'm happy to play with Jonathan while Heather and Noah nap, to take my turn holding Noah while she plays with Jonathan, to wash diapers and dishes, to make trips to the store, to fix meals. Not that I've done much of the latter yet, as their many friends have kept us well supplied with food, and Jon is a good cook as well. Okay, so I'm also exhausted, and have gained a new appreciation of why 54-year-olds are generally past the childbearing years, but I'm happy.

As a result, Heather is much more rested than I was after each of our children was born. She's sure that is speeding her healing, and I'm convinced it's keeping the dreaded postpartum depression away. Say what you want about hormones, I'd venture to guess 90% of postpartum depression is related to sleep deprivation. A happy, well-rested mother makes a huge difference to the household, and no doubt contributes greatly to a happy, contented baby.

(Far from being in seclusion for two weeks to a month, Heather and Jon have welcomed visitors from the beginning. Those who asked if they could bring meals were invited to bring enough so they could stay and join us, and some have done just that. You can tell this is a household of extroverts!)

At his one-week appointment today, Noah weighed in at 10 pounds 15 ounces! That's a 12-ounce gain from birth. Jonathan had gained 11 ounces by his one-week appointment, so it's not that surprising, although the doctor was astonished. What it does show for sure is that Noah is not being deprived by tandem nursing with Jonathan. :)

Congratulations, Discovery! A shuttle launch is my favorite kind of fireworks, and makes a great Independence Day show as far as I'm concerned. I only regret we couldn't see this one from our front porch—but grandchildren have higher priority!

Another of our favorite Independence Day events that had to go on without us is marching with the fabulous Greater Geneva Grande Award Marching Band. We miss you guys! We hope you had a wonderful parade and didn't suffer too much from lack of in-your-face hydration and nearly inaudible percussion.

Most of the news we hear about people with severe brain injuries (such as Terri Schiavo) is from a negative perspective: How long can we afford (emotionally, finanacially, and in terms of prioritizing the use of resources) to keep an unresponsive, totally dependent person alive? Would a person in such a state want to be kept alive? What does the term "quality of life" really mean, and should it be the determining factor in critical medical decisions? To whom to such decisions belong—the person (through a "living will"), the family, the doctors, the government?

Organizations that focus on the possibility of recovery from severe brain injuries through coma arousal efforts and other stimulation programs, such as the Institutes for the Achievement of Human Potential and the Family Hope Center, are derisively labelled as "alternative medicine" if not as outright quackery. In light of recent discoveries, however, perhaps it's time to rethink our attitude.

After 19 years in a "minimally conscious state" after an accident, Terry Wallis is making significant progress towards recovery, with proven evidence of brain healing and regrowth. Now that there is clear evidence that healing of brain injuries is possible, there is no excuse for reflexively dismissing the work of those who have been saying so for years. If Terry's brain could heal itself, slowly, with minimal outside stimulation, it is inexcusable not to consider the possibility of speeding up the process.

Things just began to settle down a bit after Noah's birth when we had computer problems to deal with, but it's now a quiet Sunday afternoon and the computers are back in busisness, so I'll try to catch up.

For the full story of Noah's birth, read Heather's post entitled Noah's Birth Story. I'll add some grandmotherly commentary.

Once again our family participated in the game of predicting date and time of birth, along with sex, weight, and length. I succeeded in getting the sex wrong for the third time in a row, as well as being wrong on everything else. Heather was the winner, being closest on the date and weight, and tying with Jon, Porter, and BL. for length. ABL, PL, SL, BL, TL, CD, DL and Jon guessed the sex correctly. I claim victory for the time, being off by only seven minutes, but there are purists who say the time doesn't count if you don't get the date right as well.

And there are others who claim parents, especially mothers, should not be allowed to participate, or at least not counted in the standings. Below is one particularly convincing (or at least amusing) protest:

[Moms] have too much control—I am sure Heather could have gone into labor but waited until she could win. Based on non-moms, I am claiming victory as having the closest date, the right sex, and I want to check the date of the guesses just to make sure Jon didn't "Price Is Right" me to get the height and weight since he was only one ounce and half an inch over me. I made my guesses not knowing everyone else's....I think if you averaged all categories, with some sort of scoring for how far off you were in each category, but most of the weight on having the date right, excluded Mom, and made a few other adjustments, it could happen that I would win and collect the big prize.

I'm beginning to understand why one would want to be a midwife. (There must be powerful incentives that make them to be willing to endure the difficulties and even persecutions that come with the job.) Being present at an all-natural, healthy birth is one of the highest privileges I can think of; being able to help make such a birth possible must be even higher.

When it's your own grandchild being born, the anxieties and the joys go off the scale. This time the only worrisome moment—when Noah's head was completely out (Heather looked like some strange being, with a head at each end) and the midwife was working to deliver his huge shoulders—was so intense there was no time to be aware of any fear.

Experiencing Jonathan's birth was one of the high points of my life so far, and I feel incomparably blessed to be present at Noah's as well. This time I was prepared not to witness the moment of birth, because my primary role was to be Jonathan's special friend, to be with him at the birth or not, according to his desires. But—blessing on blessing—Dad-o and Grammy were able to be there as well, so Jonathan could alternate being in with us and playing outside of the room with them.

I thought my own births were "natural," and they certainly were, if compared with why my mother went through, and with what most women are offered today. "Natural" in my day meant avoiding delivery rooms, the dreaded shaving, stirrups, and above all drugs. I still had to deal with episiotomies, a hospital setting, not being allowed to eat or drink during labor, and having my baby taken from me for unnecessary procedures.

Noah's birth was what childbirth should be. Surrounded by family, in a quiet place, eating and drinking at will, free to walk around, rest in a tub of warm water, and labor in virtually any position. Gently attended throughout by an experienced midwife who knows how to guide the process, and how to ease the delivery of a huge pair of shoulders. No episiotomy, no drugs, no wristband ID's, no eye drops, no shots, no circumcision. Dad cutting the cord. Immediate and uninterrupted bonding. Going home no sooner and no later than you want to. Okay, I'll stop now. But it was so lovely!

One thing that was totally amazing and awesome to watch was how quickly an unearthly looking, squashed, purple mass became a filled-out, pink, clearly defined head. That view was from my privileged position alone, because by the time Noah was in Heather's arms (only a few seconds later), most of the change had already taken place. I guess she'll have to wait for her own grandchildren to see that.

I'll admit I'm pretty tired. Jonathan can exhaust me all by himself. But Noah has been doing very well, and friends have been bringing dinners, so I don't think I'm any worse off than I was a week ago. :)

Speaking of exhaustion, this post has taken all day to write, so I'm just going to stop for now and go to bed.

Okay, so the wider dissemination of lesser-known comic strips is not the greatest use of the Internet, but it's fun. I've featured Baldo before, but now they have an official Baldo website to include, and today's strip is worth broadcasting.

In case you want to see the newest of the World's Most Adorable Grandchildren before I get around to updating my own image collection, you can find pictures of Noah here.

June 28, 6:02 p.m. 10 lb. 3 oz., 22.5" long, 15" head, 15" chest.

This is the quick post. The birth story is coming soon. (Really! it's actually all written on paper, just needs to be typed.) Sorry for the delay, we've had Internet problems, but Jon has it all fixed now.

(The above is from Heather and Jon's blog. Stay tuned for more. There will be pictures, too!)

(Picture added later, as the link below no longer works.)

Many, many thanks to all who have been praying! Mother and baby are radiant and doing well. More details after Jon posts to their blog; I don't want to scoop the story. :)

Jon showed me this Speed Bump comic (by Dave Coverly), and it's too good not to pass on.

The title says it all. We are now past everyone's guess but Heather's, but still only four days past D-Date, and Jonathan was five. You might say it's not worth posting if there's no news, but some of us like to keep in touch even when there's little to say. :)

We went to a wonderful Thai restaurant the other day, and Jonathan asked for chopsticks. They gave him the ones with training wheels—fastened at the top so all he had to do was pinch them together—and he did very well. That's okay if he's not going to have daily opportunities to use chopsticks, but probably not the best way for him to learn. I'm sure he learned to use a regular glass so competently at such a young age because he never had a "sippy cup," which is a convenience for parents but teaches bad habits.

There's something delightful in hearing a two year old say, "I want some guacamole."

Porter is here. We have a van. All systems are go. Just waiting for the star of the show to make his/her grand entrance.

Sometimes Jonathan will be in a silly mood and talk in nonsense words. Other than that, I've learned that if what he says doesn't make sense to me, it's not because there's no sense to it. The only example I can think of right now (though there have been many) was when, out of the blue, he asked Heather, "Where do the covers go?" We were riding in the car, and could put no context to such a question, until I remembered that earlier in the day (or it may have been the day before) I had changed his diaper while Heather was asleep. It was a particularly messy one, and he needed not only a new diaper, but also a new diaper cover and new shorts. All these go in separate places in the laundry room; the diaper in the diaper pail, the shorts in the plastic basket...but what about the diaper cover? I asked Jonathan, and he gave me an answer I didn't think was right (though it turned out it would have been the correct answer a few months ago). I put the cover in the diaper pail (which was wrong, but there's a limit to how long I'll stand around holding a dirty diaper cover) and promptly forgot about the issue. But not Jonathan. He was obviously dissatisfied with the solution and continued to think about it until he had a chance to ask the proper authority.

Jonathan has his own laptop, a touch-pad device Jon brought home from work. He knows how to plug in the power cord, and is pretty good at starting and using Microsoft Paint, his favorite program. (This is not "child's computer," so Paint is probably the most interesting program on it for him.) He doesn't always get the timing of the double-click right, and sometimes has trouble with a selection because he's leaning another part of his hand on the screen while pointing with his finger, but in general he handles it capably. It's amusing to see several of us sprawled on the living room couches, working away at our laptops, and Jonathan just as busy beside us with his own.