No Time Machine, Just a Tree
A mother’s story of loss, truth-telling, and planting prayers for the future
If I could go back in time and save my son's life, I would...
We planned a freebirth;
“Unassisted childbirth (UC) also goes by the names freebirth or DIY birth. In its most basic definition, UC is intentionally birthing at home without a doctor, midwife, or other trained health professional in attendance.” — healthline.com
Sovereign and wild —
thinking… believing… that it was the safest option.
“Protecting physiological birth” were the words I remember saying repeatedly.
The idea was to be “unobserved” so as to not interrupt the natural progression of a normal healthy birthing process.
Intuitively I always felt that home birth was the safest option —
And throughout my pregnancy, as I studied with the Freebirth Society, I felt that I had received confirmation about my aforementioned assumptions.
I was wrong.
—
After about 3 days in labour we transferred to the hospital where I was encouraged to continue pushing.
That is until the blood work panels had come back pointing to me being in a state of septic shock.
A solemn air filled the room as a nurse preformed an ultrasound.
“I’m so sorry, there’s no heartbeat.” She whispered, saying the words no parent ever wants to hear.
I was stunned — in utter disbelief.
Honestly, I don’t even think I cried.
“No. That can’t be right. Machines are wrong all the time. Couldn’t you be wrong now?”
They weren’t.
Waking up from a coma two days later,
we learned that he passed away in early labour.
Why?
We still can’t be certain.
“A perfect storm” was what the doctor had said.
A combination of many factors that, incidentally, don’t always lead to foetal demise,
yet this time
it did.
So why did my baby die when so many others live,
under the same circumstances,
in the very same storm that my birth presented…
—
His birth,
his death,
ripped me in half — literally and figuratively.
And from that point on, I was changed;
In every way I expected to be transformed as a mother,
…and in every way I hoped I never would.
—
This past year I’ve wracked my brain with how to fix it,
knowing that I never can.
Countless hours in therapy, verbal processing, and humble reflection.
Going over what I could have done differently,
almost neurotically.
Absolutely neurotically.
But there are no guarantees or certainties,
No way of knowing absolutely what could have happened
if only things were different.
Discussion after discussion,
with doctor after doctor —
each one saying the same thing:
”I’m sorry, but we just don’t know what would have happened…
We can’t promise you that he would be alive if you had got to the hospital earlier…”
It would be easier if things were black and white,
but that’s just not the way life works…
So now here I stand:
arms empty,
heart broken,
asking myself how to move forward…
if I even can.
The way I see it, I have 2 options:
I could build a Time Machine and go back to try and change the outcome. But without any realistic guarantees, even if my time machine worked, there is no way to know with any level of certainty that my son would be here if we got to the hospital sooner.
Or…I could share his story. Our story. I could write and talk and scream about what I’ve learned, so that his death will not be in vain; so that his passing, his life, would have meaning for more than just myself… And maybe, somehow, someway, make a difference in the life of another.
Here’s the thing —
I’m not a scientist or a mathematician and I don’t know how to build a Time Machine… so option 1 is out.
But I am a storyteller.
I’m a mother,
a writer,
a speaker.
I have the ability to articulate my experience,
hopefully in a way that might be understood by those who are needing the medicine that lives within the fabrics of the words I share.
I’m sure you’ve heard the saying that goes,
“The best time to plant a tree is 10 years ago, the second best time to plant a tree is right now.”
So, while I might not be able to go back in time and plant a tree 10 years ago;
while I might not be able to save my son’s life or change the circumstances of his death,
what I can do is plant a tree today.
What I can do is speak.
Even when it’s hard,
even when my voice shakes,
even when I’m being met with projection and judgement and criticism and hate.
I can be willing to stand in the fire
so the blaze of change may burn bright —
so that others may heal,
so that birth keepers and families alike may learn from our story.
I remember laying in a hospital bed,
still with a catheter supporting my bladder,
thinking very angrily at God,
“I could have learned whatever I have to learn some other way you know!
Couldn’t you have put a fable, or a story, or even a mythological legend on my path so that this wouldn’t have happened?!”
I grumbled, sobbing into my blue polyester hospital gown.
“What the actual fuck…”
An otherworldly silence took me over before I heard a voice that seemed to come out of nowhere,
yet somehow existed everywhere…
“What if you are the legend for someone else?
What if yours just happens to be the story that makes a difference in another’s life…”
I froze looking around the room to find that I was sitting alone.
Only the beeping of machines and an IV drip were there to keep me company.
My mind whirled:
What if this story was a legend… one that kept babies and mothers safe,
one that served as a warning to others,
one that could make a difference in the world somehow.
—
So,
I’m not a Time Traveler,
but I am a woman with a story,
a seed,
a tree sapling asking to be tended to.
And maybe the tree that I plant today
will offer shade to a mother planning her birth in 10 years time;
maybe this tree will bear fruit that will nourish the children of tomorrow;
maybe this tree will be the foundation of a nest that a midwife, an OB/GYN, or an L&D nurse builds to hold and care for the sacredness of birth in a new way.
I don’t have much to give,
but I do have a story.
I have the heartbreaking memory of my son,
a compassionate understanding of the world of freebirth,
and the experience of being in respectful relationship with medical providers.
My son came here to change the world;
he came here to change me,
and that’s exactly what he did.
And I promise,
if you let him into your heart,
I know he will change your life too.
He will transform you just like he’s done with every other person that’s come to hear our story
and know him
and love him.
The beautiful hummingbird baby that he is,
the medicine man,
the midwife.
It is by sharing his story,
that I mother him.
It is by speaking truth,
that I may participate in the protection of babies, mothers, and the sanctity of birth.
It is by keeping his memory alive,
that the conversation continues.
Maybe by sharing our story openly, I can do right by him;
maybe by sharing his memory, I will make him proud of me.
So while I am not a mathematician or scientist,
and while I’m not the person to invent a time machine…
I am a mother —
His mother.
And if I could go back in time to bring him back and keep him safe,
if there was any way that I could do that,
or change the past so that things could be different…
if there was any guarantee that he would be alive,
I would do it in a heartbeat,
because I love him more than myself.
If there was anyway I could trade my own life for his,
I would.
No questions asked.
But I don’t have time machine,
I have a voice —
And I will use it.
In this fertile soil of heartache — I plant a tree,
knowing well that I will not be nursing my beautiful son in it’s shade;
while simultaneously fully aware that this tree will grow tall.
And maybe 5, 10, 30, or 100 years down the road mothers and their babies will find solace beneath its branches.
And you know something…
that’s a prayer.
In reverence,
Emma
