Sunday, December 30, 2012

Two weeks later

It's been more than two weeks since the Newtown shootings, and the shock of senselessness continues to unsettle me, even as I spend the holidays surrounded by family. I think about all the firsts that my daughter has experienced in the last two weeks -- first Christmas Eve candelight service, first Christmas, first present unwrapped, first fire in the fireplace.

Because of this tragedy, those experiences have been taken away from so many families, and when I focus in on that fact, I have a hard time coping with a sadness that starts to spiral out of control.

There may not be an obvious connection here, writing about this event on a parenthood blog that mostly focuses on the struggles of trying to become a parent or being one. But despite all the ink spilled and bytes consumed and punditry blathered on television stations, I believe there's something missing from the national conversation: the role of community and shared responsibility. As any group of people living in community, we need each other and we have a responsibility to care for each other. Part of the reason we started this blog is because we felt like too many people suffer alone. Women (and their partners) suffer miscarriages without telling anyone. Or others find they can't have children and quietly go through the process of adoption (or they decide not to have children at all). But no one talks about it. Communication that might generate conflict and awkwardness and pain is avoided. Is that the kind of world we should live in? Where we suffer alone and assume no one else can (or is willing) to share our burdens? As my family and I have been through our own struggles with a miscarriage, a traumatic birth and subsequent mental health battles, we decided to stop suffering alone.

For me, that's what connects this blog to what happened in Newtown.

I have a hard time believing I live in a world where someone bursts into an elementary school and systematically shoots and kills children.

As a new dad, I don't know how to process this. As a human being, I don't know how to process this. I am grateful that my daughter is only six months old, and I don't have to figure out how to tell her about this kind of evil in the world just yet. Not yet...that qualifier terrifies me. I never want her to know that kind of evil and pain, but I know it's inevitable.

It feels like there are no sacred, safe spaces left in this country. Schools, temples, malls and movie theaters. Why have these communal spaces become arenas for shooting tragedies? What does it say about how we build and sustain communities? Have we as a country lost our willingness to engage in meaningful community building? Are there safe community spaces? Where do people come together in meaningful ways to share their lives, experiences and responsibilities?

I will leave the political debates, specifically about gun control and mental health care, for another time, for others to argue about in another space. But I wonder: Would it make a difference if our communities were stronger? Would things like this happen on such a scale and with such frequency if we lived more intentionally communal lives -- where we had responsibilities to others that extend beyond our families? Where we know our neighbors, where villages really do raise children? I don't know much about Newtown, other than at least portions (especially where the killer lived) seem like a classic bedroom community. There is plenty of urban violence in this country -- awful shootings that also often involve children, for example -- but I wonder about the impact on our society of communities where we don't know our neighbors. Suburbs and subdivisions seem to experience a disproportionate amount of these mass killings.

As we sift through the horror of Newtown, there will be plenty of conversation about mental health services and gun control -- and rightly so -- but I wonder if the real question is the loss of dense, community-driven connection in this country. As far as I can tell from media reports, no one really knew Adam Lanza very well, nor his mother, who owned several guns. Their house was on a huge plot of land, and their neighbors didn't really know much about them. Their subdivision (what a depressing word, by the way) clearly does not structurally lend itself to communal, shared responsibility. This is a (broken) family that lived in functional isolation.

(Quick aside: though I do not own a gun, I have no issue, generally speaking, with guns or others' choice to own them. I grew up around guns, took a hunter safety course as a teen and even participated in target shooting competitions as a kid. I was taught how to handle and respect the weapons in my home, and I respect the rights of people who choose to own guns.)

In truth, I live in a city that has ten times the density of Newtown, Conn., but I don't know my neighbors very well, either. In this country, we no longer seek out the company of people who live in proximity to us. We drive out of our way to connect with people who agree with us -- who share our predetermined, demographically assigned values. Or we just shut out everyone else entirely.

My wife and I joined Park Hill United Methodist Church partially out of a sense of lost community. We'd had several friends who'd moved away and we had encountered some personal loss that we were struggling to make sense of. We needed a community, and, thank God, we found it through a church that's only two miles from our house. Every week, we invite members of the church into our home.  They come, they hold my daughter, play with her, they engage in fellowship with us, and we feel connected in a way that we haven't ever really experienced before in our nine years in this city.

Why is that? It shouldn't be this hard to connect and engage with your neighbors and build community.

Was Adam Lanza part of a community that cared about him? That shared his struggles? That felt a responsibility to take care of him as a neighbor or friend? This young man didn't have access to (or at least didn't take advantage of) mental health services he needed -- that's clear -- but did he even have a community of people who cared about him at all?

Have we lost our sense of community in this country? Have we lost our sense of shared responsibility?

There will always be tragedies, but I have to believe this particular kind of tragedy doesn't have to be. This isn't a natural disaster or an act of political terrorism. This is a shooting. In an elementary school. A sacred space. What fixes this? I don't want my daughter to grow up in a world where tragedies like this happen. I don't want her to grow up in a world I have a hard time believing even exists.

Can we rebuild a sense of community, shared responsibility, service, compromise and dialogue in this country? That's what has always made our country great. How do we repair the parts of this great society, this American Dream, that have been broken?

What fixes this?

Monday, December 17, 2012

Miscarriage, Stillborn and Newtown

Isaiah 26:4 says, "You will keep in perfect peace those whose minds are steadfast, because they trust in you.  Trust in the Lord forever, for the Lord, the Lord himself, is the Rock eternal."

How do we seek peace in the midst of sadness, struggle, devastation and loss?  Whether it be a miscarriage, a stillborn birth or a horrific death of a child.  Who and what do we turn to?  We turn to our loved ones.  We turn to our friends.  We sometimes reach out to professionals - doctors, therapists.  But often times there is no peace.  We find no peace.  We move on with the wonderful families we have, the children already in our lives and for some we are able to have more children.  But is that peace found?

This scripture from Isaiah is a letter to the people in Judah.  It is written in Hebrew.  As we know, the Hebrew word for peace is SHALOM.  It's said twice in this passage: a peaceful peace or a complete peace.  The passage says to be steadfast in our minds - to focus on God through attending church, being a part of a bible study and praying daily.  Through this steadfastness and over years of relationship with God, we pray that we will have this perfect peace.  It doesn't come by just meeting God on a first date and suddenly we have "perfect peace", no it's a relationship that takes time.

The person who steadfastly looks to God can know an inner oneness which makes possible a confident outlook even in the darkest hours.  In exchange for our mortality, short-sightedness and weakness, faith receives God's perspective, immortality, strength and presence.  That is security far, far beyond anything this world offers.  The promises God keeps with us are intended to create confidence in His Word and faithfulness to Him.  Those who abide in His Word and cultivate faithfulness, find peace, a deep, restful constant assurance that God cannot forsake His Word nor His promises.  For those whose mind is fixed upon the promises of God, the outcome of all events is peace.

How can we find this peace when we feel far from God in the midst of our loss, sadness and grief?  We find it by giving ourselves time while at the same time trusting that God is present right where we are.  It is a time to receive Grace when we need it most of all.  It's a time of understanding that God knows where we are on our journey and will not lose hold of us as we seek comfort and healing that can only come from God.  Isaiah reminds us to trust when we can do nothing else and God promises to hold us and give us a firm foundation upon which to stand as our journeys continue, because He is the Rock Eternal.

**This post is adapted from our Service of Remembrance honoring our children who were miscarried, stillborn or have died.

Here is my pastoral prayer from yesterday's worship service,

O Great Comforter,
who was with Elizabeth through her barren years and with Mary through her uncertain pregnancy.  We know you were in the school Friday, you were with the teachers and the students EVERY MOMENT. 

Lord, we ask that you continue to abide in the families of Charlotte, Daniel, Rachel, Olivia, Josephine, Ana, Dylan, Dawn, Madeleine, Catherine, Chase, Nancy, Jesse, James, Grace, Anne Marie, Emilie, Jack, Noah, Caroline, Jessica, Avielle, Lauren, Mary, Victoria, Benjamin and Allison.  Lord, in your mercy - hear our prayer.

We pray for those in our congregation and in our community struggling this season.
We pray for your peace.  God of peace, let us feel your peace today. Amen

Lauren Boyd
Director of Programming and Membership at PHUMC
Partner to Candi and Mother to Miller who is 5

Thursday, December 13, 2012

Are you getting any sleep?

One of the first things anyone asks a new parent is, “Are you getting any sleep?”

At first, I thought this was a tongue-in-cheek code among parents, because, as most people know, a lot of babies don’t sleep through the night, or even any other time you want them to, generally speaking. Now that I’m entering my seventh month as a parent, I’m realizing that the question may mean more than I thought: sleep is difficult when you have a baby -- when you are a parent -- but not always for the reasons you might think.

My daughter, Eleanor, sleeps better than I do. Now, in some ways, that’s technically true for most parents (babies sleep for 15 hours a day, on average), but to be honest with you, I have a pretty easy baby, at least when it comes to sleeping through the night. She’s been sleeping through the night 95 percent of the time since she was about 5 weeks old.

(Note to parents who hate me right now: please keep reading.)

Now, we’ve had our sleep battles with our daughter -- she’s not the best napper in the world, and she has a hard time falling asleep (another blog post for another time), but I won’t pretend I can even begin to understand what it feels like for parents who spend hours getting their babies to sleep only so they can wake up again 2,3, or 4 hours later, several times through the night.

Despite being blessed with the best baby in the entire world, I don’t sleep very much. I seem to be pushing all my anxiety about being a parent into some pretty crushing insomnia. For the past three months, I’m lucky if I get 6 hours of sleep in a night. On the surface, Eleanor has nothing to do with this problem. She goes to sleep at 7:45 pm or so, gets up to eat around 6 am and goes back to bed until about 8 in the morning.

But me: I struggle with panic attacks that hit right about the time I try to fall asleep, or they hit when I wake up in the middle of the night for no reason. Some nights, I don’t sleep at all.

The first time that happened, in late September, it just so happened that our normally very good sleeper was waking up in the middle of the night and we couldn’t figure out why. This, obviously, interrupted my sleep schedule. It lasted for about a week and half, and then she started sleeping just fine.

But I didn’t. I probably average 4-6 hours a night with several night wakings. It’s beyond exhausting. At first, I felt crippled. The first night that I didn’t sleep (not for a minute), I laid there, waiting for my wife to wake up at 6 am. She got up to turn off the alarm, and I turned to her and said, I need to go to the doctor, and I need to find a mental health specialist, because I can’t do this every night.

The spiralling what if questions that race through my mind are too numerous to capture here, but most of them are about not being the best, most perfect stay-at-home dad that’s ever existed, about not being good at this new job and my daughter suffering because of my personal failings.

There are plenty of things I don’t like about myself, but being a parent puts a gigantic spotlight on all of them, and it feels like there’s nowhere to hide. I’m working on this struggle, and it’s getting better.

I see a therapist every couple of weeks and I take a mild, low-dose anti-anxiety medication to help me sleep (and it still doesn't always work). I'm trying to reach out to people, building up a community through our church and by just being honest and open with people.

One thing I’ve realized as a parent is that I have to remember that I'm not the only with who's having a hard time. I’ve had several other parents tell me that they take medication and see therapists, too. I didn’t know this until I started sharing my own struggles. When we become parents, we assume that other parents out there have it figured out. But figuring it out is relative, and it looks different for each family. We all have our struggles.

I’ve realized that there are people out there who care about me and want to support me and my family. Keeping that in perspective seems to help more than anything.

There are a variety of labels you could slap onto this situation, but here’s the point: it’s ok to seek out help, and it’s ok not to be the perfect parent. I do the best I can for my amazing little girl. If I have to work through my issues with a psychologist and take some medication, that’s ok. I’m doing it so I can be there for her.

Tuesday, December 11, 2012

Barrenness at Christmas

God is amazing. This ministry is so new.  We are looking for those of you who would be willing to share your journey with others so they might feel community and hope.  Then just yesterday, Donna Claycomb Sokol, a friend from divinity school wrote the following post.  She quotes another divinity school friend, Enuma Okoro.  Donna is a pastor in DC.  Enuma is a writer who has written a poignant book called Silence and Other Surprising Invitations of Advent.  Enuma writes about what happened in the corners and in the minds of those journeying so long ago.  She writes of Elizabeth’s barrenness and that God brings John the Baptist into the Christmas story so it isn’t such a “Hallmark Story.”  She also broaches the subject of barrenness and infertility.  Donna wrote about this yesterday and had several comments on her post.  She has allowed me to share it with you today.

“I encountered rather raw words from my reading with Enuma Okoro this morning. The words are uncomfortable. They also name so much of the pain I have encountered as a pastor and as a woman who always thought she would have children but now finds absolute peace in my family of two. Our churches have not always made space to name and hold infertility and miscarriage. Instead, we regularly ignore the pain as we hand out flowers to mothers and celebrate fathers while some young adults sink further into the hardness of their pew. We don't know what to say when someone says, "I just had a miscarriage," often failing to see and hold the pain. I'd give anything - absolutely anything - to fill wombs that are longing to no longer be empty. Here's what Enuma writes, ‘Barrenness does not simply mean that a woman cannot have children. Infertility can be fraught with all kinds of unmentioned trials and varying levels of pain. And rarely is it clean. It is messy. Enduring a miscarriage is a horrifying experience of encountering life blood seeping from your body. Not to mention the emotional trauma of infertility, the self-inflicted guilt, feelings of failure, the possible onslaught of depression. Only after we acknowledge the physical reality of barrenness can we begin to consider how such pain can transfer to other forms of barrenness. Then we can adequately name other empty spaces in our lives that feel as painful as the ache of a womb that refuses to carry life, the purpose for its creation.’” – Rev. Donna Claycomb Sokol, Mount Vernon Place UMC.

You may be struggling with infertility or you may be struggling with a barrenness inside of you that is an unwillingness to forgive someone or to be forgiven, or an inability to hope.  This season, we are called to look to the God of hope and love.  We are also called to cling together in the messiness, be there for one another through the pain and bring life to one another.

Lauren Boyd 
Director of Programming and Membership at PHUMC
Partner to Candi and Mother to Miller who is 5

Thursday, December 6, 2012

Two-Way Communication

One of my favorite names for a blog is NPR’s “The Two-Way.” That’s what we want this blog to be, too. It’s not just a forum for Lauren and me to write about our own experiences. We want to hear from you. If you'd like to comment on the blog, please feel free. And I know that some of you are writers, and you will want to tell your own stories. We welcome that. You can submit blog posts to me at steve.holzrussell@gmail.com or to Lauren at Lauren@phumc.org. The topic range is pretty wide open: your Parenthood Journey.

Some of you may want to share your stories, but you don’t feel comfortable writing them yourselves. I used to tell other people’s stories for a living (when I was a newspaper reporter), and I would be happy to meet with you over coffee (or a beer) and work with you to tell your story. Please email me or Lauren if you’re interested, or, if you go to Park Hill United Methodist Church, just pull me aside and bend my ear.

As for me and my stories, well, the next one you’ll hear from me is about being a stay-at-home dad. That’s coming soon, and it’s a story that won’t end with one post :)

Here’s a teaser:

Patient. That’s a word people don’t often use to describe me. I hate being stuck in traffic, standing in lines, waiting for a table at a restaurant. Really, waiting for anything drives me crazy. I hate not having control over my own time, and not knowing what comes next.

So I became a stay-at-home dad. On paper, this seems like the worst job someone like me could have.

In my next post, I’ll explain why it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done, and the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

Tuesday, December 4, 2012

Duchess of Cambridge and other Pregnancy Complications

I can’t help it.  I’ve always wanted to be a princess.  My mom used to say we were royalty without a country.  I even did the genealogy of my family and somehow found that we are related to the kings and queens of England!  All this to say, I’m totally excited about Will and Kate’s baby!  I know, it’s THEIR baby not mine, but I’m excited.  They seem like a really cool couple and they are royalty.
I was sad to hear that the reason we know so soon is because Kate is so sick.  I pray that she has a mildecase and is able to get past hyperemesis gravidarum in a few weeks.  This morning, I saw someone from www.helpher.org, which is the website for the foundation H.E.R. Foundation, on the CBS Morning Show.  The guest talked about this condition and the website.  Here’s the gist of hyperemesis gravidarum per the website.
Hyperemesis gravidarum (HG) is a severe form of nausea and vomiting in pregnancy. It is generally described as unrelenting, excessive pregnancy-related nausea and/or vomiting that prevents adequate intake of food and fluids. If severe and/or inadequately treated, it is typically associated with: loss of greater than 5% of pre-pregnancy body weight (usually over 10%), dehydration and production of ketones, nutritional deficiencies, metabolic imbalances, difficulty with daily activities.
HG usually extends beyond the first trimester and may resolve by 21 weeks; however, it can last the entire pregnancy in less than half of these women. Complications of vomiting (e.g. gastric ulcers, esophageal bleeding, malnutrition, etc.) may also contribute to and worsen ongoing nausea.” – www.helpher.org
When reading about HG, it made me think about other conditions that can occur during pregnancy.  We imagine an easy, glowing pregnancy, but that doesn’t always happen.  I have two friends who experienced preeclampsia and also met Mrs. Colorado 2012 who had it with both pregnancies.  It seems from the numbers, that preeclampsia is more common than HG, but still affects a small part of the population.  The website www.preeclampsia.org has helpful information.  Here’s the gist of preeclampsia per their website.
Preeclampsia is a disorder that occurs only during pregnancy and the postpartum period and affects both the mother and the unborn baby. Affecting at least 5-8% of all pregnancies, it is a rapidly progressive condition characterized by high blood pressure and the presence of protein in the urine. Swelling, sudden weight gain, headaches and changes in vision are important symptoms; however, some women with rapidly advancing disease report few symptoms.

Typically, preeclampsia occurs after 20 weeks gestation (in the late 2nd or 3rd trimesters or middle to late pregnancy) and up to six weeks postpartum, though in rare cases it can occur earlier than 20 weeks. Proper prenatal care is essential to diagnose and manage preeclampsia. HELLP syndrome and eclampsia (seizures) are other variants of preeclampsia. 
Most women with preeclampsia will deliver a healthy baby and fully recover. However, some women will experience complications, several of which may be life-threatening to mother and/or baby. A woman’s condition can go from a mild form of preeclampsia to severe preeclampsia very quickly.
Preeclampsia and other hypertensive disorders of pregnancy can be devastating diseases, made worse by delays in diagnosis or management, seriously impacting or even killing both women and their babies before, during or after birth.
Globally, preeclampsia and other hypertensive disorders of pregnancy are a leading cause of maternal and infant illness and death. By conservative estimates, these disorders are responsible for 76,000 maternal and 500,000 infant deaths each year.” – www.preeclampsia.org
A friend of mine was in for a regular doctor’s check up, they diagnosed her and sent her straight to the hospital.  She stayed there for a few weeks and seemed fine (other than missing her toddler at home with his dad.)  One night about midnight, all her bells and whistles went off and they emergently took the baby.  It’s been 2 ½ years and both mom and little girl are great, but it was a very scary night and days to come for the mother, weeks to come with her daughter.
From what I’ve read, in both of these cases – KNOWING your body and getting to the doctor right away if you feel something isn’t normal is KEY!!!!  I hope to have lots of conversation around preeclampsia both at church and here on the blog.  It is a condition/disorder that many people don’t know about, but can be very dangerous for both mother and child.  As we wait this Advent for Jesus’ arrival, don’t wait if you or a pregnant loved one isn’t feeling well.

Lauren Boyd
Director of Programming and Membership at PHUMC
Partner to Candi, Mother to Miller who is 5

Thursday, November 29, 2012

A birth story


In this holiday season, here’s what I’m thankful for: my daughter is alive.

Every parent of a biological child has a birth story, and I am going to tell you about the birth of my daughter. I imagine that every birth story reflects what it feels like to be a parent, no matter how “smooth” the birth. I imagine that most birth stories aren’t the ones that the parents involved expected to tell.

My baby almost died. But she’s here, she’s alive, and now she is almost six months old.

Our daughter was due June 6, but by our last checkup (on June 7), there was no sign that she was in any hurry to come out. By all accounts (ultrasounds, fetal heartbeat monitors, etc.), she was perfectly healthy in there, but Katie (my wife) was showing no signs of labor.

Our OB-GYN said she didn’t want to take any chances with complications, so she asked us to check into the hospital on Sunday, June 10, to start inducing labor, with the expectation that our daughter would be born on Monday. It was also the expectation that inducing would take long enough that our OB-GYN would be able to attend the birth. As you are about to find out, that didn’t happen.

We checked into the hospital on Sunday night, at about 7:30, and they started the induction at about 10:30. An ultrasound, conducted by an exhausted doctor who happened to be the mother of a six-month old herself, indicated that everything was ok.

Everybody left the room. The only sounds left were the fetal monitor (like listening to a heartbeat on speakerphone) and the low sounds of The Philadelphia Story, the comfort food movie Katie wanted to watch while we waited for labor to begin.

We waited. And we waited. Katie fell asleep. I didn’t.

After a couple of hours, that’s when things started happening. At first, as I laid on the world’s least comfortable couch “bed,” I noticed that the monitor heartbeat started to drop and get really irregular. I thought this was odd, but I ascribed it to our daughter just moving around in the womb and Katie trying to get comfortable by shifting in bed. A slipping monitor seemed like a reasonable explanation.

And then three nurses and the on-call OB-GYN and burst into the room, flicked on the lights and started fussing over Katie, moving her, checking the monitor, readjusting it. Then an anesthesiologist waltzed in and asked, “So, are we doing this now?”

The OB-GYN, a preternaturally calm woman in her late fifties, explained that the baby’s heart rate was dropping intermittently, independent of Katie’s contractions (which were minor, at best -- she couldn’t even feel them). She said that if the trend continued, we “may” have to consider a C-Section. Oddly enough, this did not send us into a panic. They readjusted the monitor, Katie fell asleep again, and I listened really hard at that damn fetal monitor, waiting for something to sound wrong.

I didn’t sleep, and I waited. An hour and a half later, I started hearing a disturbingly different sound. That healthy heartbeat slowed down dramatically. (Science Aside: A normal, healthy fetus has a heart that beats between 140 and 160 beats per minute. Our daughter’s pulse slowed to 80 beats a minute).

The same five people (three nurses, two doctors) who I’d seen earlier that night burst through the door again, but this time it was different.

The anesthesiologist already had a clipboard in his hand, a consent form for putting Katie under if they couldn’t get her into the OR fast enough. The OB-GYN stood off to the side, keeping out of the way but making sure that everybody was doing their job. I walked over to her, and I asked her, “Does this mean we’re going to have to consider the C-Section?”

“It means that we’re doing this right now,” she said, with a calm urgency that I think only doctors are capable of. Katie signed the consent form.

They had Katie out of the room in less than five minutes. One of the nurses threw a set of scrubs at me and said she would come back for me. As Katie was wheeled out of the room, she asked me to call her parents, who were staying at our house.

It was 2:15 am.

So I’m pulling the scrub pants over my jeans with one hand and calling my in-laws with the other, somehow managing to multi-task despite being terrified. Katie’s mom answered the phone, said they were on their way, and I finished getting dressed.

No one came back for me.

I burst out of the room, and I saw a random hospital worker and demanded they tell me where I was supposed to go. This confused person stared at me with confusion until the aforementioned nurse came running down the hall. She said, “come with me, but you might not be able to come into the OR.” (Apparently, if they have to use full anesthesia, you -- meaning the partner -- are not allowed to attend the C-Section). I raced after her and stopped at the OR doors. The nurse popped her head in, and, thank God, she came back to let me in. I walked in, and they were just finishing Katie’s spinal block. I saw the needle withdrawn and they laid Katie down on the operating table.

They raised a sheet between Katie’s head/chest and her abdomen. I stood around, flittering about like a crazy person until a doctor I’d never seen before gave me a chair and told me to sit down next to Katie.

I held her hand and asked the doctors if I could watch. They said yes, and I stood up. I asked Katie if she wanted me to tell her what was going on. She said, “absolutely not.”

Ten minutes later, they pulled my daughter out of Katie’s uterus.

My daughter stared right at me. No noise, for three seconds. The longest three seconds of my life. I was afraid she would never breathe. I was afraid she was already dead.

And then she started screaming, and my knees almost buckled.

“Oh my God!” I stammered.

They took my baby over to a table to measure her. She pooped everywhere while scoring high on Apgar marks (the scale they use to determine a baby’s health at birth).

What they don’t tell you is that the birth through a C-Section is the shortest part of the operation. They gave Katie and me a choice. I could stay with Katie in the OR, or I could go with my baby into the recovery room. Katie, who was shivering (apparently, with the hormone withdrawal of birth, that’s normal), told me to go with my daughter. So I did.

It was all so fast, I didn’t know what to think. The whole process, from labor room to OR to recovery room with my brand new daughter, lasted about 20 minutes.

After it was over, that’s when I found out how dire the situation really was.

“You must have had some angels watching over your daughter,” said the head nurse. “If your wife had gone into labor at home, your daughter wouldn’t be here.”

You see, my wonderful, beautiful, active daughter had managed to wrap the cord around her midsection and around her neck. In fact, she was moving around so much that she had even managed to tie her umbilical cord into a true knot.

Imagine that for a second. A baby that had moved so much in utero that she tied her cord in a knot.

Our doctor explained later that the drops in pulse were due to our daughter pinching the cord, (via movement, via the knot) slowing the blood/nutrient flow from the placenta to my baby. Less blood, less work for the heart. And eventually death, had Katie gone into labor naturally at home before the doctors could figure out what was going on.

There’s more to say about this journey, about being a parent. But I need to tell you something important.

I thank God every day that my daughter is alive.

Monday, November 26, 2012

Advent = Waiting

“As December begins, we turn to the Advent season, which is traditionally a season of waiting.  Waiting for the story of the Nativity to unfold.  Waiting with the prophets of centuries past for righteousness to arrive and redemption to appear.  Waiting with cousins, both expectant mothers--one older than usual, who bears a prophet, one younger than usual, who bears The Promise.  Waiting with shepherds and angels, scholars and innkeepers.  All of them waiting for The Promise to arrive.” Rev. Chris Barrett, pastor in South Carolina and divinity school friend.
I couldn’t have said it better myself.  I keep retelling the story of Christmas to my son so he knows – it’s not about Santa or about you.  It’s about Jesus – Jesus’ birthday and why God sent his son into the world.  Why?  To show us love, to be in relationship with us and most importantly to save us. But first, we have Advent - the time of waiting.  I was so excited for my son to arrive, that I pushed to have him early.  He didn’t look too thrilled with me once he arrived, but I made it happen.  I just couldn’t wait any longer!
For many of us, we have waited months, even years to have a child.  We have trusted in God and in our bodies to give us a precious child to love.  For some, the waiting seems to take an eternity.  It helps to pray – pray for pregnancy, but also pray for comfort, peace and patience.  It also helps to talk about the struggle of waiting with someone other than your spouse.  Friends can be helpful.  Someone through this new ministry can be helpful.  A psychologist who works with all things perinatal can be helpful.  I met a wonderful psychologist here in Denver who has supported many of family through the waiting.
We can also wait for our child to sleep through the night, walk, or talk.  Maybe you’re waiting for your child to be potty trained.  We all wait for a milestone to occur as we move on to more waiting.  Well, we are here to wait with you.  Whatever your advent is – we are here to wait right by your side.
As for The Advent time, we wait together for the baby Jesus who is the Incarnate Deity – God in Flesh.  We wait as we light the candles of Hope, Love, Peace and Joy.  I pray for hope, love, peace and joy in your household this Christmas.
Lauren Boyd 
Director of Programming and Membership at PHUMC
Partner to Candi and Mother to Miller who is 5

Saturday, November 17, 2012

Another beginning, and another welcome

My name is Steve, and I am the stay-at-home dad of a five-month-old girl who nearly died on her way into this world.

That was how I started my Parenthood Journey, and a little later, I will tell the story of that day as part of this blog. I am really happy that Lauren asked me to help her start this blog, because so much of what we do as parents -- even the birth of our children -- feels like it occurs in a vacuum. Sure, we talk to our friends, consult with other parents and our pediatricians and read the recommended books. But when it comes to the birth and most every day after, we’re really on our own. At least, that’s how I feel sometimes. But I’ve learned that you don’t have to feel alone. Hopefully, this blog can serve as a resource for all those parents and would-be parents out there who have struggled or are struggling through the unplanned curves life throws at us.

In the coming weeks, I will be writing about my daughter’s birth and the struggles my wife and I have experienced before that day and since. It is my hope, and Lauren’s, that others will share their stories -- whether it’s about trying to get pregnant, the birth experience (traumatic and otherwise), miscarriages, or just about being a parent or wanting to be one or being scared of being one. This isn’t about exploitation; we want this to be a place where people can find a community of love, empathy and hope as they go through their Parenthood Journey.


The blog is one part of Park Hill United Methodist Church’s new ministry, and it will evolve to meet the needs of those we serve. Please feel free to write comments and make suggestions about how we can reach out to those in our church community (and beyond). And if you are interested in contributing your own story, contact Lauren or Steve. My email address is steve.holzrussell@gmail.com. I look forward to working with Lauren, and I hope to hear from those of you out there who want to share your stories or from those simply seeking a community of support.

Steve Holz-Russell
Husband to Katie and Father to Eleanor (5 months)

Tuesday, November 13, 2012

The Beginning



Welcome to The Parenthood Journey Blog.  As children, we have a fairytale of what our lives will turn out to be.  Usually life is much more  complex.  When it comes to fertility, its often joyous, but definitely not a fairytale.  With the best of circumstances, The Parenthood Journey is difficult; at the worst it is catastrophic.

Our church, Park Hill UMC in Denver, has started a ministry to talk about, listen to, support and educate each other on many of these fertility and parenthood issues that so many of us are silently coping with.  Some of these are: infertility, miscarriage, stillborn births, preeclampsia,  c-sections, postpartum depression, children born with special needs and life as parents.

We aren’t experts, but some of us are ministers and caregivers, many of us are parents, a few are doctors, nurses and therapists.  With your help we can grow this ministry into something really special.

Our first time together was Sunday, October 14th.  October is/was Pregnancy Loss Month.  We had a Time of  Remembrance which will be sponsored by our Tender Loving Care (TLC)         Ministry.  There is a Japanese word, Mizuko, which means “child of the waters.”  It refers to any child who has not breathed air. The Mizuko are sacred in the Japanese culture.  We now have a Mizuko statue in our Columbarium for all the children who were miscarried or stillborn.  We also will plant a tree in a national forest in for each child who is miscarried or stillborn.  

We hope for many contributers on this blog.  Those who will tell "their journey" be it a birth story, a miscarriage story or coping now as a parent.  We plan to have some psychologists who will weigh in as well.  If you are interested in this ministry or know someone who may be, please contact Lauren Boyd lauren@phumc.org, 303-322-1867 ext.208.

Welcome to our new journey together - The Parenthood Journey.

Lauren Boyd 
Director of Programming and Membership
Partner to Candi and Mother to Miller who turned 5 today!

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